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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


MODERN  ESSAYS 
AND  STORIES 

A  BOOK  TO  AWAKEN  APPRECIATION  OF 
MODERN  PROSE,  AND  TO  DEVELOP 
ABILITY  AND  ORIGINALITY  IN  WRITING 


EDITED,    WITH     INTRODUCTION,    NOTES,    SUGGESTIVE      » 
QUESTIONS,    SUBJECTS    FOR    WRITTEN    IMITATION,    DI- 
RECTIONS FOR  WRITING,  AND  ORIGINAL  ILLUSTRATIONS 

BY 

FREDERICK  HOUK  LAW,  Ph.D. 

Head  of  the  Department  of  English  in  the  Stuyvesant  High  School, 
New  York  City,  Editor  of  Modern  Short  Stories,  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY  THE  CENTURY  CO. 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THE 
RIGHT  TO  REPRODUCE  THIS  BOOK,  OR 
PORTIONS  THEREOF,  IN  ANY  FORM.  3120 


>',     !     •  '.     '< 


PRINTED       IN      U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

In  all  schools  pupils  are  expected  to  write  "essays"  but, 
curiously  enough,  essay-reading  and  essay-writing  are  taught 
but  little.  In  spite  of  that  neglect,  the  essay  is  so  altogether 
natural  and  spontaneous  in  spirit,  so  intensely  personal  in 
expression,  and  so  demanding  of  excellence  of  prose  style,  that 
it  is  the  form,  par  excellence,  for  consideration  in  school  if 
teachers  are  to  show  pupils  much  concerning  the  art  of  writing 
^  well.  The  essay  is  to  prose  what  the  lyric  is  to  poetry — com- 
plete, genuine  and  beautiful  self-expression,  or  better  still, 
v*  self-revelation. 

Most  of  the  writing  done  in  schools  is  straightforward  nar- 
ration of  events,  without  much,  if  any,  attempt  to  show  per- 
sonal reactions  on  those  events — mere  diary-like  accounts,  at 
best;  mechanical  descriptions  that  aim  to  present  exterior 
appearance  without  attempting  to  reveal  inner  meanings  or 
to  show  awakened  emotions ;  and  stereotyped  explanations  and 
arguments  drawn,  for  the  most  part,  from  books  of  reference 
or  from  slight  observation. 

Beyond  all  this  mechanical  work  lies  a  field  of  throbbing 
personal  life,  of  joyous  reactions  on  all  the  myriads  of 
interests  that  lie  close  at  hand,  of  meditations  on  the  wonders 
of  plant  and  animal  life,  of  humorous  or  philosophic  comments 
on  human  nature,  and  of  all  manner  of  vague  dreams  and 
aspirations  aroused  by 

"Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream." 

Without  the  slightest  question,  it  is  the  duty  of  the  school, 
and  of  the  teacher  in  particular,  to  lead  pupils  to  appreciate 
honesty  and  originality  in  unapplied,  unpragmatic  self-expres- 
sion, and  to  show  pupils  how  they  themselves  may  gain  the 

v 

±7: 


Vi  PREFACE 

very  real  pleasure  of  putting  down  on  paper  permanent 
records  of  their  own  intimate  thinking. 

Joseph  Addison's  The  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  Papers  and 
Washington  Irving 's  Sketch  Book  have  for  many  years  made 
valiant  but  unsuccessful  efforts  to  fill  the  places  that  should 
be  filled  by  more  modern  representatives  of  the  essay. 
Macaulay  's  Essay  on  Johnson  is  a  biographical  article  for  an 
encyclopedia ;  his  essays  on  Clive  and  on  Hastings  are  polem- 
ics; and  Carlyle's  Essay  on  Burns  is  a  critical  disquisition. 
With  the  exception  of  The  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  Papers,  all 
these  so-called  essays  are  of  considerable  length  and  are  un- 
fitted to  serve  as  the  best  examples  of  the  essay  form ; — for 
the  essay,  like  the  lyric,  demands  brevity :  it  is,  after  all,  only 
a  quick  flash  of  self-revelation, — not  a  sustained  effort. 

Then  again,  who  would  wish  to  learn  to  write  like  Addison, 
like  Washington  Irving,  like  Macaulay,  or  like  Carlyle !  Those 
great  writers  couched  their  thoughts  in  the  language-fashions 
of  their  days,  just  as  they  clothed  their  bodies  in  the  gar- 
ments of  their  times.  To  imitate  either  their  style  of  ex- 
pression or  their  costumes  would  be  to  make  one 's  self  ridicu- 
lous, or  to  take  part  in  a  species  of  masquerade. 

The  extremely  Latinized  vocabulary  of  1711,  or  the  resonant 
periods  and  marked  antitheses  of  1850,  are  as  old-fashioned 
to-day  as  are  the  once  highly  respected  periwigs,  great-coats 
and  silver  shoe  buckles  of  the  past. 

The  thoughts  of  yesterday  are  not  the  thoughts  of  to-day. 
There  is,  in  serious  reality,  such  a  thing  as  "an  old-fashioned 
point  of  view."  With  all  due  reverence  for  the  past,  the  best 
teachers  of  to-day  believe  that  it  is  just  as  necessary  for 
students  to  use  present-day  methods  of  expression  and  to 
cultivate  present-day  interests  as  it  is  to  take  advantage  of 
the  railroad,  the  telegraph,  the  telephone,  the  automobile,  and 
the  thousand  other  mechanical  contrivances  that  aid  life  to- 
day, but  which  were  unknown  in  1711  or  in  1850. 

The  type  of  essay  that  should  be  studied  in  school  should 
concern  modern  interests  ;  represent  the  modern  point  of  view ; 
discuss  subjects  in  which  young  students  are  interested;  be 
expressed  in  present-day  language  and,  in  general,  should  set 


PREFACE  Til 

forward  an  example  that  pupils  may  directly  and  successfully 
imitate. 

In  order  to  do  all  this  to  the  best  advantage  the  essays 
chosen  for  study  should  be  exceedingly  short.  To  a  young 
student  essays  of  any  considerable  length,  unless  the  subject 
matter  is  of  unusually  intensive  interest,  present  insuperable 
difficulties.  Short  essays,  on  the  other  hand,  appear  to  him 
exactly  what  they  are, — charmingly  delightful  expressions  of 
personal  opinion. 

The  essays  in  this  book,  instead  of  telling  about  coffee 
houses  or  stage  coaches,  Scotch  peasants  or  literary  circles  in 
London  or  Edinburgh,  tell  about  such  subjects  as  Christmas 
crowds,  church  bells,  walking,  dogs,  the  wind,  children,  the 
streets  of  New  York,  school  experiences,  and  various  modern 
ideals  in  work,  in  literature,  and  in  life.  Most  of  the  essays 
are  exceedingly  short,  only  one  or  two  being  more  than  a  few 
pages  in  length. 

The  essays  here  given  represent  various  types,  including 
not  only  the  chatty,  familiar  essay  but  also  informational 
essays,  critical  essays,  biographical  essays,  story  essays,  and 
one  or  two  examples  of  highly  poetic  prose. 

An  informal  introduction,  paving  the  way  to  a  sympathetic 
understanding,  precedes  every  essay.  Notes  below  the  pages 
of  text  explain  immediately  all  the  literary  or  historical 
allusions  with  which  a  young  reader  might  not  be  familiar, 
their  close  position  to  the  text  making  it  unnecessary  for  a 
student  to  hunt  for  an  explanation. 

Suggestive  questions  given  immediately  after  every  essay 
make  it  possible  for  the  teacher  to  assign  lessons  quickly ;  they 
also  enable  the  student  to  study  by  himself  and  to  feel  assured 
that  he  will  not  miss  any  important  point. 

Twenty  subjects,  suitable  as  subjects  for  essays  to  be 
written  by  the  student  in  direct  imitation  of  the  essay  that 
immediately  precedes  them,  follow  every  selection.  In  addi- 
tion to  this  great  number  of  appropriate  modern  subjects, 
more  than  500  in  number,  on  which  young  students  can  ex- 
press their  real  selves,  there  are  given,  in  connection  with 
every  list  of  subjects,    directions   for  writing, — such   as   a 


viii  PEEFACE 

teacher  might  give  a  class  when  assigning  written  work, 
The  subject-lists  and  the  directions  for  writing  give  the 
teacher  a  remarkable  opportunity  to  stimulate  a  class  as 
never  before ;  to  awaken  a  spirit  of  genuine  self-expression ; 
and  to  teach  English  composition  in  a  way  that  he  can  not 
possibly  do  through  the  medium  of  any  of  our  present-day 
rhetorics. 

For  the  advantage  of  those  teachers  who  wish  to  combine 
the  teaching  of  the  essay  and  of  the.  short  story,  and  who 
may  not  have  at  hand  any  suitable  collection  of  short  stories, 
the  book  includes  not  only  introductory  material  concerning 
the  nature  of  the  short  story  and  the  development  of  the 
short  story  form,  but  also  a  series  of  stories  of  unusual 
interest  for  young  readers,  so  chosen  and  so  arranged  that 
they  represent  the  development  of  the  short  story  through 
the  legendary  tale,  the  historical  story,  and  the  romantic 
story  of  adventure,  to  the  story  of  realism  and  of  character. 
In  every  case  the  story  chosen  is  one  that  any  student  will 
enjoy  and  will  understand  immediately,  as  well  as  one  that  he 
can  imitate  both  with  pleasure  and  with  success. 

Introductions,  foot  notes,  suggestive  questions,  subjects  for 
written  imitation,  and  directions  for  writing,  follow  every 
story. 

If  the  book  is  used  both  as  a  means  of  awakening  literary 
appreciation  and  developing  honesty,  originality,  and  power 
in  written  self-expression  it  will  give  pleasure  to  teachers  and 
students  alike. 


INTRODUCTION 


THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS 

' '  The  plowman,  near  at  hand, 
Whistles  o  'er  the  furrowed  land, 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe  ..." 

Why?  Simply  because  they  are  happy;  because  they  are 
healthy  and  vigorous,  and  at  work ;  because  they  are  doing 
something  that  interests  them ;  because  their  hearty  enjoyment 
in  life  must  express  itself  in  some  other  way  than  in  work 
alone :  in  fact,  they  whistle  and  sing  just  for  the  doing  of  it, — 
not  that  they  wish  any  other  person  to  hear  them,  and  not 
that  they  wish  to  teach  anything  to  anyone.  Their  whistling 
and  singing  are  spontaneous,  and  for  the  sake  of  expression 
alone. 

Many  of  the  best  English  essays  were  written  just  for  the 
joy  of  self-expression.  Serious  workers  in  life,  in  their  leisure 
moments,  have  let  their  pens  move,  as  it  were,  automatically, 
in  a  sort  of  frank  and  full  expression  somewhat  akin  to  the 
plowman's  whistling  and  the  milkmaid's  singing. 

Certainly  in  that  joyous  spirit  Michel  de  Montaigne,  in 
the  sixteenth  century,  wrote  the  delightfully  familiar  essays 
that  have  charmed  readers  for  over  three  hundred  years,  and 
that  established  the  essay  as  a  literary  type.  In  a  like  vein, 
frankly  and  personally,  Charles  Lamb,  who  died  in  the  first 
half  of  the  nineteenth  century,  wrote  intimate  confessions 
of  his  thoughts, — his  memories  of  schooldays  and  of  early 
companionships  and  familiar  places, — writing  with  all  the 
warmth  and  color  of  affectionate  regard.  Happily,  and  be- 
cause he  was  glad  to  be  alive,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  almost 
in  our  own  days,  wrote  of  his  love  of  the  good  outdoor  world 
with  its  brooks  and  trees  and  stars,  of  his  love  of  books  and 

ix 


x  INTEODUCTION 

high  thought,  and  his  admiration  of  a  manly  attitude  toward 
life. 

For  such  people  writing  for  the  sake  of  expression  was  just 
as  pure  joy  as  the  plowman's  whistling  and  the  milkmaid's 
singing. 

Ordinary  people  write  at  least  the  beginnings  of  essays 
when  they  write  letters, — not  business  letters  in  which  they 
order  yards  of  cloth,  or  complain  that  goods  have  not  been 
delivered, — not  letters  that  convey  any  of  the  business  of  life, 
— but  rambling,  gossipy,  self-revealing  letters,  so  illuminated 
with  personality  that  they  carry  the  very  spirit  of  the  writers. 

Everyone,  at  times,  talks  or  writes  in  a  gossipy  way  of  the 
things  that  interest  him.  He  likes  to  escape  from  the  world  of 
daily  tasks,  of  orders,  directions,  explanations  and  arguments, 
and  to  talk  or  write  almost  without  purpose  and  just  for  the 
sake  of  saying  something.  In  that  sense  everyone  is  a  natural 
essayist. 

The  true  essayist,  like  the  pleasant  conversationalist,  ex- 
presses himself  because  it  gives  him  pleasure.  Out  of  his 
rich  experience  and  wide  observation  he  speaks  wisely  and 
kindly.  He  has  no  one  story  to  tell  and  no  one  picture 
to  present.  He  follows  no  rules  and  he  aims  at  no  very 
serious  purpose.  He  does  not  desire  to  instruct  nor  to  con- 
vince. Like  the  conversationalist,  he  is  ready  to  leave  some 
things  half-said  and  to  emphasize  some  subjects,  not  because 
it  is  logical  to  do  so  but  because  he  happens  to  like  them.  He 
is  ready  at  any  moment  to  tell  an  ancedote,  to  introduce  humor 
or  pathos,  or  to  describe  a  scene  or  a  person — if  so  doing  fits 
his  mood.  In  general,  the  true  essayist  is  like  the  musician 
who  improvises :  he 

"Lets  his   fingers   wander   as   they  list, 
And  builds  a  bridge  from  dreamland." 

Of  all  possible  kinds  of  prose  writing,  the  essay,  therefore, 
gives  the  greatest  freedom.  The  essayist  may  reveal  himself 
completely  and  in  any  manner  that  he  pleases.  He  may  tell 
of  his  delight  in  wandering  by  mountain  streams,  or  in  min- 
gling with  the  crowds  in  city  streets;  he  may  tell  of  his 
thoughts  as  he  meditated  by  ancient  buildings  or  in  the  solemn 


INTEODUCTION  sa 

half-darkness  of  age-old  churches;  he  may  dream  of  a  long- 
gone  childhood  or  look  ahead  into  a  roseate  future;  he  may 
talk  of  people  whom  he  has  known,  of  books  that  he  has  read, 
or  of  the  ideals  of  life.  Any  subject  is  his,  and  any  method  of 
treatment  is  his, — just  so  long  as  his  first  thought  is  the  frank 
and  full  expression  of  himself. 

To  write  an  essay, — even  though  it  be  only  a  paragraph, — 
is  to  gain  the  pleasure  of  putting  at  least  a  little  of  one 's  real 
self  down  on  paper — just  because  to  do  so  is  pleasure. 

II 

THE  NATURE  OF  THE  ESSAY 

The  essay,  then,  instead  of  being  a  formal  composition,  is 
characterized  by  a  lack  of  formality.  It  is  a  species  of  very 
friendly  and  familiar  writing.  Like  good  conversation,  it 
turns  in  any  direction,  and  drops  now  and  then  into  interest- 
ing anecdotes  or  pleasant  descriptions,  but  never  makes  any 
attempt  to  go  to  the  heart  of  a  subject.  However  serious  an 
essay  may  be  it  never  becomes  extremely  formal  or  all- 
inclusive. 

A  chapter  in  a  textbook  includes  all  that  the  subject 
demands  and  all  that  the  scope  of  treatment  permits.  It 
presents  well-organized  information  in  clear,  logical  form. 
It  aims  definitely  to  explain  or  to  instruct.  It  may  reveal 
nothing  whatever  concerning  its  writer.  An  essay,  on  the 
other  hand,  includes  only  those  parts  of  the  subject  that  in- 
terest the  writer ;  it  avoids  logical  form,  and  is  just  as  chatty, 
wandering,  anecdotal  and  aimless  as  is  familiar  talk.  It 
focuses  attention,  not  on  subject-matter  but  on  the  person- 
ality of  the  writer. 

The  "essay  does  not  reveal  a  subject:  it  reveals  personal 
interests  in  a  subject.  It  touches  instead  of  analyzing.  It 
comments  instead  of  classifying. 

Truth  may  sparkle  in  an  essay  as  gold  sparkles  in  the 
sand  of  an  Alaskan  river,  but  the  presentation  of  the  truth  in 
a  scientific  sense  is  no  more  the  purpose  of  the  essay  than 
is  the  presentation  of  the  gold  the  purpose  of  the  river.    In 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

the  eighteenth  century,  essayists  like  Joseph  Addison, 
Richard  Steele,  Oliver  Goldsmith  and  Samuel  Johnson,  com- 
mented freely  upon  eighteenth  century  manners  and  customs, 
but  they  made  no  attempt  to  present  a  careful  survey  of  the 
subject.  Every  writer  wrote  of  what  happened  to  interest  him. 
To-day  it  is  possible  to  draw  from  the  great  body  of  eighteenth 
century  essays  material  for  an  almost  complete  survey  of 
manners  and  customs  in  that  period — but  that  result  is  only 
an  accident.    The  writers  did  not  intend  it. 

The  essayist  is  not  concerned  with  giving  accurate  and 
logically -arranged  information.  He  thinks  only  of  telling  how 
his  subject  appeals  to  him,  of  telling  whether  or  not  he  likes 
it,  and  why.  The  more  personally  he  writes,  the  better  we  like 
his  work.  In  his  revelation  of  himself  we  find  a  sort  of 
revelation  of  ourselves  as  well, — and  we  like  his  work  in  pro- 
portion to  that  revelation. 

Naturally,  a  good  essay  is  short ;  for  self-revelation  is  given 
in  flashes,  as  it  were, — in  sparkles  of  thought  that  gleam  only 
for  a  moment.  Many  so-called  essays  of  great  length  are 
either  only  partly  essays,  or  else  are  made  up  of  a  number 
of  essays  put  together.  Stevenson's  An  Inland  Voyage  is 
partly  a  straightforward  story  of  a  canoe  trip,  and  partly 
a  series  of  essays  on  subjects  suggested  by  the  trip.  It  is 
possible  to  draw  from  a  self-revealing  book  of  considerable 
length  a  great  number  of  essays  on  a  wide  variety  of  subjects. 
The  essays  gleam  in  the  pages  of  ordinary  material  as  dia- 
monds gleam  in  their  settings  of  gold. 

The  essay,  as  a  literary  type,  is  written  comment  upon  any 
subject,  highly  informal  in  nature,  extremely  personal  in 
character,  and  brief  in  expression.  It  is  also  usually  marked 
by  a  notable  beauty  of  style. 


Ill 

TYPES  OF  THE  ESSAY 

Just  as  there  are  many  kinds  of  houses  and  many  kinds  of 
boats  so  there  are  many  kinds  of  essays.     Some  essays  tend 


INTEODUCTION  xiii 

to  emphasize  the  giving  of  information,  lean  very  strongly 
toward  formality,  and  place  comparatively  little  weight  on 
personality, — and  yet  even  such  essays,  as  compared  with 
other  and  more  serious  writings,  are  discursive  and  personal. 
They  are  like  some  people  who  seem  to  favor  extreme  for- 
mality without  ever  quite  attaining  it. 

Other  essays  are  critical.  They  point  out  the  good  and  the 
bad,  and  they  set  forward  ideals  that  should  be  reached. 
The  criticism  they  give  is  not  measured  and  accurate  like 
the  criticism  a  cabinet-maker  might  make  concerning  the  con- 
struction of  a  desk.  It  is  more  or  less  personal  and  haphazard 
like  the  remarks  of  one  who  knows  what  he  likes  and  what  he 
does  not  like  but  who  does  not  wish  to  bother  himself  by 
going  into  minute  details. 

Many  essays  tell  stories,  but  never  for  the  sake  of  the 
stories  alone.  They  use  the  stories  as  frameworks  on  which 
to  hang  thought,  or  as  illustrations  to  emphasize  thought.  The 
essays  hold  beyond  and  above  everything  the  personality  of 
the  one  who  writes. 

Almost  all  essays  are  in  some  sense  biographical,  but  they 
reveal  stories  of  lives,  instead  of  telling  the  stories  in  organ- 
ized form.  The  little  of  biography  that  essays  tell  is 
just  enough  to  permit  the  writers  to  recall  the  memories  of 
childhood,  and  the  varied  affections  and  interests  of  life. 
For  real  biography  one  must  go  elsewhere  than  to  essays. 

Some  essays  lift  one  into  a  fine  and  close  communion  with 
their  writers,  and  give  intimate  companionship  with  a  human 
soul.  They  are  the  best  of  all  essays.  Such  essays  are  always 
extremely  familiar,  and  deeply  personal,  like  the  essays  of 
Michel  de  Montaigne  and  Charles  Lamb.  About  such  essays 
is  an  aroma,  a  fascination,  a  delight,  that  makes  them  a 
joy  forever.  As  one  reads  such  essays  he  feels  that  he  is  walk- 
ing and  talking  with  the  writers,  and  that  he  hears  them 
express  noble  and  uplifting  thoughts. 

The  terse  style  of  Francis  Bacon ;  the  magical  phrases  of 
Sir  Thomas  Browne ;  the  well-rounded  sentences  of  Joseph 
Addison,  Sir  Richard  Steele  and  Oliver  Goldsmith ;  the 
poetic    prose    of    Thomas    de    Quincey;    the    charm    of   the 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

pages  of  Charles  Lamb  and  Robert  Louis  Stevenson, — 
all  this  is  in  no  sense  accidental.  The  intimate  revela- 
tion of  self,  such  as  is  always  made  by  the  best  essayists,, 
creates  the  most  pleasing  style.  Genuine  self-expression, 
whether  it  be  the  fervor  of  an  impassioned  orator,  the  ardor 
of  a  lyric  poet,  or  the  meditative  mood  of  the  essayist,  always 
tends  to  embody  itself  in  an  appropriate  style.  For  that 
reason  much  of  the  best  prose  of  the  language  is  to  be  found 
in  the  works  of  the  great  essayists. 

Some  writers,  like  Thomas  de  Quincey,  have  so  felt  the 
significance  of  beauty  of  style,  and  have  so  appreciated  its 
relationship  to  the  revelation  of  mood  and  personality,  that 
they  seem,  in  some  cases,  to  have  written  for  style  alone. 
Their  essays  are  unsurpassed  tissues  of  prose  and  poetry. 

IV 

THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  ESSAY 

Through  the  medium  of  spoken  or  written  meditations 
men  have  always  expressed  their  personalities,  and  thereby 
have  approached  the  writing  of  essays.  Many  sections  of 
the  Bible  are  practically  essays,  especially  those  passages  in 
Ecclesiastes  that  speak  concerning  friendship,  wisdom,  pride, 
gossip,  vengeance,  punishment  and  topics  of  similar  type.  In 
the  ancient  Greek  and  Roman  orations  are  essay-like  sections 
in  which  the  speakers  paused  for  a  moment  to  express  their 
innermost  thoughts  about  life,  patriotism,  duty,  or  the  great 
fact  of  death.  Cicero,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  Romans, 
wrote  admirably  and  with  a  spirit  of  familiarity  and  frank- 
ness, on  friendship,  old  age,  and  immortality.  In  all  ages,  in 
speeches,  in  letters,  and  in  longer  works,  essay-like  produc- 
tions appeared. 

The  invention  of  the  modern  essay, — that  is,  of  the  ex- 
tremely informal,  intimate  and  personal  meditation, — came 
in  1571,  in  France.  The  inventor  of  the  new  type  of  litera- 
ture was  Michel  de  Montaigne,  a  retired  scholar,  counsellor 
and  courtier,  who  found  a  studious  refuge  in  the  old  tower 
of  Montaigne,  where  he  meditated  and  wrote  for  nine  years. 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

His  essays,  which  were  first  published  in  1580,  are  so  delight- 
fully informal,  so  frankly  personal,  so  clever  and  well-aimed 
in  humor,  and  so  wise,  that  they  are  almost  without  parallel. 
In  1601  an  Italian,  Giovanni  Florio,  translated  Montaigne's 
essays  into  English.  Immediately  the  essays  became  popular 
and  they  have  deeply  influenced  the  writing  of  essays  in  Eng- 
lish. In  1597  Francis  Bacon  published  the  first  of  his  essays, 
but  he  did  not  write  with  the  familiarity  that  characterized 
Montaigne.  Nevertheless,  his  work,  together  with  that  of 
Montaigne,  is  to  be  regarded  as  representing  the  beginning 
of  the  modern  essay. 

It  was  not  until  the  development  of  the  newspaper  in  the 
eighteenth  century  that  the  essay  found  its  real  period  of 
growth  as  a  literary  type.  In  the  first  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century  The  Tatler  and  The  Spectator,  and  similar  periodicals, 
gave  an  opportunity  for  the  publication  of  short  prose  com- 
positions of  a  popular  nature.  Joseph  Addison  and  Richard 
Steele,  writing  with  kindly  humor  on  the  foibles  of  the  day, 
did  much  to  establish  the  popularity  of  the  essay.  Samuel 
Johnson,  Oliver  Goldsmith  and  other  writers,  in  other  period- 
icals, continued  the  writing  of  essays,  and  made  the  power  of 
the  essay  known. 

Until  the  time  of  Charles  Lamb,  in  the  first  half  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  no  English  writer  had  even  approached 
the  familiar  charm  of  Montaigne.  Bacon  had  written  in  a 
formal  manner;  his  followers  had  held  before  them  the 
thought  of  teaching  rather  than  the  thought  of  self-revelation ; 
the  eighteenth  century  writers  had  delighted  in  character 
studies  and  in  observations  on  social  life  and  customs.  Lamb, 
on  the  other  hand,  wrote  not  to  instruct  but  to  communicate ; 
not  about  the  world  but  about  himself.  He  restored  the 
essay  to  its  position  as  a  means  of  self-revelation.  The  most 
notable  fact  about  Lamb's  essays  is  that  they  reveal  him  to 
us  as  one  of  the  persons  whom  we  know  best.  At  the  same 
time  humor,  pathos  and  beauty  of  expression  are  so  remark- 
able in  Lamb's  essays  that  they  alone  give  them  permanent 
value. 

Other  writers  of  the  essay,  like  Leigh  Hunt,  Sydney  Smith, 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

"William  Hazlitt,  and  Francis  Jeffrey,  wrote  powerfully  but 
none  of  them  with  a  charm  equal  to  that  of  Lamb.  Thomas 
de  Quincey,  writing  in  a  highly  poetic  style,  did  much  to  stim- 
ulate poetic  prose.  Lord  Macaulay,  in  a  number  of  critical 
and  biographical  essays,  wrote  forcefully,  logically,  and  with 
a  high  degree  of  mastery  of  style  but  he  paid  slight  attention 
to  self-revelation. 

It  is  evident,  then,  that  there  are  two  marked  types  of 
the  essay, — one,  the  formal,  purposive  composition ;  and  the 
other  informal  and  intensely  personal  in  nature.  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson,  Matthew  Arnold,  John  Ruskin,  and  James  Russell 
Lowell  represent  the  first  type.  Many  excellent  articles  in 
periodicals,  and  many  of  the  best  of  editorial  articles  in 
newspapers  are  in  reality  essays  of  the  formal  kind.  Wash- 
ington Irving,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  Henrj^  D.  Thoreau, 
George  William  Curtis  and  many  others  represent  the  second 
type. 

In  modern  times  the  world  has  been  blessed  by  the  writing 
of  a  number  of  essays  of  the  charming,  familiar  type.  John 
Burroughs  has  revealed  his  love  for  the  world  of  nature; 
Henry  Van  Dyke  has  taken  us  among  the  mountains  and 
along  the  rivers;  and  Gilbert  K.  Chesterton,  Arnold  Bennett, 
Samuel  M.  Crothers,  Charles  Dudley  Warner,  Hamilton 
Wright  Mabie,  Brander  Matthews,  Agnes  Repplier  and  a 
host  of  others  have  written  on  many  and  varied  subjects. 

Great  essayists,  like  great  novelists  or  great  poets  or  great 
dramatists,  are  rare.  It  is  only  now  and  then  that  a  Mon-* 
taigne,  a  Charles  Lamb,  or  a  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  appears. 
It  is  to  the  glory  of  literature,  however,  that  there  are  so 
many  who  write  in  the  field  of  the  essay,  and  who  approach 
true  greatness,  even  if  they  do  not  attain  it. 

V 
ESSAYS  WELL  WORTH  READING 

Joseph  Addison       1  m,      a 

Sir   Richard  Steele  J  The  Spectator 

Apochrypha,  The  Ecclesiasticus 

Arnold,  Matthew  Culture  and  Anarchy 


INTRODUCTION 


rvu 


ESSAYS  WELL  WORTH  READING  (Continued) 


Bacon,  Francis 
Bennett,  Arnold 
Browne,  Sir  Thomas 
Bible,  The  Holy 
Burroughs,  John 


c  c 


<  ( 

<  < 


Carlyle,  Thomas 
Curtis,  George  William 
Chesterfield,  Lord 
Crothers,  Samuel  M. 
Emerson,  Ealph  Waldo 
Goldsmith,  Oliver 
Grayson,  David 
Harrison,  Frederic 
Hearn,  Lafcadio 
Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell 


Irving,  Washington 

Johnson,  Samuel 

<  <  < « 

Lamb,  Charles 
Lowell,  James  Russell 
Matthews,  Brander 
Mabie,  Hamilton  Wright 
Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington 
Maeterlinck,  Maurice 


<  < 


<  < 

<  < 


Mitchell,  Donald  G. 
a  ii       << 

Montaigne,  Michel  de 

Pater,  Walter 

De  Quincey,  Thomas 

ll  a 

Repplier,  Agnes 
Ruskin,  John 
Roosevelt,  Theodore 
Ross,  E.  A. 
Shairp,  John  Campbell 
Stevenson,  Robert  Louis 


<< 
it 
tt 


« < 


<  < 

<  i 


Essays 

How  to  Live  on  24  Hours  a  Day 

Religio  Medici 

Ecclesiastes 

Birds  and  Bees 

Locusts  and  Wild  Honey 

Wake  Robin 

Winter  Sunshine 

Accepting  the  Universe 

Heroes  and  Hero  Worship 

Prue  and  I 

Letters  to  His  Son 

The  Gentle  Reader 

Essays 

The  Citizen  of  the  World 

Adventures  in  Contentment 

The  Choice  of  Books 

Out  of  the  East 

The    Autocrat    of    the    Breakfast 

Table 
The    Professor    at    the    Breakfast 

Table 
The  Poet  at  the  Breakfast  Table 
Over  the  Teacups 
The  Sketch  Book 
The  Idler 
The  Rambler 
Essays 

Among  My  Books 
Aspects  of  Fiction 
Essays  on  Nature  and  Culture 
Milton 

Field  Flowers 
News  of  the  Spring 
Old  Fashioned  Flowers 
Reveries  of  a  Bachelor 
Dream  Life 
Essays 

Appreciations 
Vision  of  Sudden  Death 
Dream  Fugue 
In  Our  Convent  Days 
Sesame  and  Lilies 
The  Strenuous  Life 
Sin  and  Society 

Studies  in  Poetry  and  Philosophy 
Inland  Voyage 
Travels  with  a  Donkey 
Virginibus  Puerisque 
Memories  and  Portraits 
Later  Essays 


xviii 

INTEODUCTION 

ESSAYS  WELL  WORTH  READING  (Continued) 

Thoreau,  Henry  David 

A  Week  on  the  Concord  and  Mec< 

rimac  Rivers 

««             11          it 

Walden 

<(             «<          «« 

The  Maine  Woods 

« <             < «          n 

Cape  Cod 

Van  Dyke,  Henry 

Little  Rivers 

« <       <  <           <  < 

Fisherman  's  Luck 

Wagner,  Charles 

The  Simple  Life 

White,  Gilbert 

The  Natural  History  and  Antiqui- 

ties of  Selborne 

VI 
THE  WRITING  OF  SHORT  STORIES 

You  cross  a  street  and  narrowly  escape  being  run  over  by 
an  automobile;  or  you  go  on  a  picnic  and  have  delightful 
experiences;  or  you  return  from  travel,  with  the  memory  of 
happy  adventures — at  once  an  uncontrollable  impulse  besets 
you  to  tell  some  one  what  you  experienced.  That  desire  to 
interest  some  one  else  in  the  series  of  actions  that  interested 
you,  is  the  basis  of  all  story-telling. 

In  one  of  its  simplest  forms  story-telling  is  personal  and 
concerns  events  that  actually  occurred  to  the  story-teller. 
Such  narration  uses  the  words  "I,"  "me"  and  "mine,"  seeks 
no  development,  aims  at  no  climax,  and  strikes  at  interest  only 
through  telling  of  the  unusual. 

When  you  stand  before  an  abandoned  farm-house  and  see 
its  half-fallen  chimney,  its  decayed  boards,  its  gaping  win- 
dows, and  the  wild  vines  that  clamber  into  what  was  once  a 
home  your  imagination  takes  fire,  and  you  think  of  happier 
days  that  the  house  has  seen.  You  imagine  the  man  and 
woman  who  built  it;  the  children  who  played  in  its  doorways; 
and  the  happy  gatherings  or  sad  scenes  that  marked  its  story. 
That  quick  imagination  of  the  might-be  and  the  might-have- 
been  is  the  beginning  both  of  realism  and  of  romance.  The 
story  you  would  tell  would  use  the  third  person,  in  all  prob- 
ability; would  seek  an  orderly  development,  and  would  aim 
at  climax. 


INTRODUCTION  xi» 

When  you  stand  in  your  window  on  a  winter  day  and 
watch  thousands  of  snow-flakes  float  down  from  the  sky, 
circling  in  fantastic  whirls,  you  see  them  as  so  many  white 
fairies  led  by  a  master  spirit  in  revel  and  dance.  You  are 
ready  to  tell,  with  whatever  degree  of  fancy  and  skill  you 
can  command,  the  story  of  the-world-as-it-is-not  and  as-it- 
never-will-be.     A  story  of  that  kind  is  pure  romance. 

Whenever  you  tell  what  happened  to  you  or  to  some  on© 
else ;  or  what  might  have  been  or  might  be ;  or  of  what  could 
not  possibly  be,  your  object  is  to  interest  some  one  else  in 
what  interests  you.  You  use  many  expedients  to  capture 
and  to  hold  interest :  you  make  a  quick  beginning,  or  careful 
preparation  for  the  climax;  you  make  your  story  as  real  or 
as  striking  as  you  can  make  it ;  you  cut  it  short  or  you  tell  it 
at  length;  or  you  hold  the  reader's  attention  on  some  point 
of  interest  that  you  do  not  reveal  in  full  until  the  last.  What- 
ever you  do  to  capture  and  to  hold  interest  makes  for  art  in 
story-telling. 

When  an  airplane  descends  unexpectedly  in  a  country 
town  every  one  in  the  place  wishes,  as  soon  as  possible,  to  learn 
whence  the  aviator  came  and  what  experiences  he  had. 
Human  curiosity  is  insatiable,  and  for  that  reason  people  love 
to  hear  stories  as  well  as  to  tell  them. 

In  fact,  people  gain  distinct  advantages  by  reading  stories. 
They  become  acquainted  with  many  types  of  character;  they 
see  all  sorts  of  interesting  events  that  they  could  never  see 
in  reality ;  they  see  what  happens  under  certain  circum- 
stances, and  thereby  they  gain  practical  lessons.  Through 
their  reading  they  gain  such  vivid  experiences  that  they  are 
likely  to  have  a  larger  outlook  upon  life. 

VII 

NATURE  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Brevity  is  the  first  essential  of  a  short  story,  and  yet 
under  the  term,  "brief,"  may  be  included  a  story  that 
is  told  in  one  or  two  paragraphs,  and  a  story  that  is  told  in 
many  pages.  A  story  that  is  so  long  that  it  cannot  be  read 
easily  at  a  single  sitting  is  not  a  short  story.  Qtf- 


n  INTRODUCTION 

To  make  one  strong  impression  on  the  mind  of  the  reader, 
and  to  make  that  impression  so  powerfully  that  it  will  leave 
the  reader  pleased,  convinced  and  emotionally  moved  is  the 
principal  aim  of  a  good  short  story.  To  the  production  of 
that  one  effect  everything  in  the  story, — characters,  action, 
description,  and  exposition, — points  with  the  definiteness  of 
an  established  purpose.  All  else  is  omitted,  and  thus  all  the 
parts  of  the  story  are  both  necessary  and  harmonious. 

Centralizing  everything  on  the  production  of  one  effect 
makes  every  short  story  complete  in  itself.  The  purpose 
having  been  accomplished  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said. 
The  end  is  the  end. 

A  convincing  sense  of  reality  characterizes  every  excellent 
short  story.  The  author  himself  appears  only  as  one  who 
narrates  truth,  not  at  all  as  one  who  has  moved  the  puppets 
of  imagination.  The  story  seems  a  transcript  from  real 
experience.  The  characters, — not  the  author, — make  the  plot. 
Their  personalities  reveal  themselves  in  action.  The  entire 
story  is  founded  substantially  upon  life  and  appears  as  a 
photographic  glimpse  of  reality. 

As  in  all  other  writing,  the  greater  the  art  of  the  writer  in 
adapting  style  to  thought,  in  using  language  effectively,  the 
better  production.  Word-choice,  power  of  phrasing,  and  skill 
in  artistic  construction  count  for  as  much  in  the  short  story  as 
in  any  other  type  of  literature. 

TYPES  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Since  the  short  story  represents  life,  it  has  as  many  types 
as  there  are  interests  in  life.  It  may  confine  itself  to  the 
ordinary  events  of  life  in  city  or  country,  at  home  or  abroad ; 
it  may  concern  past  events  in  various  regions ;  or  it  may 
look  with  a  prophetic  glance  into  the  distant  future.  It  may 
concern  nothing  but  verifiable  truth  or  be  highly  imaginative, 
delicately  fanciful,  or  notably  grotesque.  It  may  draw 
interest  from  quaint  places  and  odd  characters,  or  it  may 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

appeal  through  vividness  of  action.  It  may  aim  to  do  nothing 
more  than  to  arouse  interest  and  to  give  pleasure  for  » 
moment,  or  it  may  endeavor  to  teach  a  truth. 

Among  the  many  types  of  the  short  story  a  few  are  espe 
cially  worthy  of  note. 

Folk-lore  stories  are  stories  that  have  been  told  by  common 
people  for  ages.  They  come  direct  from  the  experience  and 
the  common  sense  of  ordinary  people.  They  represent  the 
interests,  the  faith  and  the  ideals  of  the  race  from  which  they 
come. 

Fables  are  very  short  stories  that  point  out  virtues  and 
defects  in  human  character  presented  in  the  guise  of  animal 
life. 

Legends  are  stories  that  have  come  down  to  us  from  a  time 
beyond  our  own.  They  are  less  simple  and  direct  than  the 
ordinary  folk-lore  story.  Undoubtedly  founded  on  actual 
occurrences  they  have  tinged  fact  with  a  poetic  beauty  that 
ennobles  them  and  often  gives  them  highly  ethical  values. 

Stories  of  adventure  emphasize  startling  events  rather  than 
character. 

Love  stories  emphasize  courtship  and  the  episodes  of 
romantic  love. 

Local  color  stories  reveal  marked  characteristics  of  custom 
and  language,  and  the  oddities  of  life  notable  in  a  particular 
locality. 

Dialect  stories  make  use  of  the  language  peculiarities  found 
in  common  use  by  a  particular  type  of  people. 

Stories  of  the  supernatural  deal  with  ghostly  characters 
and  uncanny  forces. 

Stories  of  mystery  present  puzzling  problems,  and  slowly, 
step  by  step,  lead  the  readers  to  satisfactory  solutions. 

Animal  stories,  whether  realistic  or  romantic,  concern  the 
lives  of  animals. 

Stories  of  allegory,  through  symbolic  characters  and  events, 
reveal  moral  truths. 

Stories  of  satire,  by  ridiculing  types  of  character,  social 
customs,  or  methods  of  action,  tend  to  awaken  a  spirit  of 
reform. 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

Stories  of  science  present  narratives  based  upon  the  exposi. 
tion  and  the  actual  use  of  scientific  facts. 

Stories  of  character  emphasize  notable  personalities,  place 
stress  upon  motive  and  the  inner  nature  rather  than  upon 
outer  action,  and  clarify  the  reader's  understanding  of  human 
character. 

IX 

THE  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY 

Although  the  beginnings  of  the  short  story  existed  in  the 
past,  and  although  tales  were  told  in  all  ages,  the  short  story, 
in  its  present  form,  is  a  comparatively  new  type  of  literature. 
The  short,  complete,  realistic  narrative  designed  to  produce  a 
single  strong  impression,  came  into  being  in  the  first  half  of 
the  nineteenth  century.  The  first  writer  to  point  out  and  to 
exemplify  the  principles  of  the  modern  short  story  was  Edgar 
Allan  Poe,  1809-1849. 

As  early  as  4000  B.C.  the  Egyptians  composed  the  Tales 
of  the  Magicians,  and  in  the  pre-Christian  eras  the  Greeks 
and  other  peoples  wrote  short  prose  narratives.  Folk-lore 
tales  go  back  to  very  early  times.  The  celebrated  Gesta 
Bomanorum  is  a  collection  of  anecdotes  and  tales  drawn  from 
many  ages  and  peoples,  including  the  Greeks,  the  Egyptians 
and  the  peoples  of  Asia.  In  the  early  periods  of  the  history 
of  Europe  and  of  England  many  narratives  centered  around 
the  supposed  exploits  of  romantic  characters  like  the  ancient 
Greeks  and  Trojans,  Alexander  the  Great,  Charlemagne  and 
King  Arthur. 

In  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries  the  Italians 
became  skilful  in  the  telling  of  tales  called  novelle.  Giovanni 
Bocaccio,  1313-1375,  brought  together  from  wide  and  varied 
sources  a  collection  of  one  hundred  such  tales  in  a  volume 
called  II  Decamerone.  He  united  the  tales  by  imagining  that 
seven  ladies  and  three  gentlemen  who  had  fled  from  Florence 
to  avoid  the  plague,  pass  their  time  in  story-telling.  His  work 
had  the  deepest  influence  on  many  later  writers,  including  par- 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

ticularly  the  English  poet,  Geoffrey  Chaucer,  1340-1400,  whose 
Canterbury  Tales  re-tell  some  of  Bocaccio's  stories.  Chaucer 
imagines  that  a  number  of  people,  representing  all  the  types 
of  English  life,  tell  stories  as  they  journey  slowly  to  the  shrine 
of  Thomas  a  Becket  at  Canterbury.  His  stories  intimately 
reveal  the  actual  England  of  his  day.  He  is  the  first  great 
realist. 

In  the  sixteenth  century  many  writers,  particularly  in  Italy, 
France  and  Spain,  told  ingenious  stories  that  developed  new 
interest  in  story-telling  and  story-reading. 

The  writing  of  character  studies  and  the  development  of 
periodicals  led,  in  the  eighteenth  century,  to  such  essays  as 
The  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  Papers,  written  for  The  Spectator 
by  Joseph  Addison,  1672-1719,  and  Sir  Richard  Steele,  1672- 
1729.  The  doings  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  are  told  so 
realistically  and  so  entertainingly  that  it  was  evident  that 
such  material  could  be  used  not  only  to  illustrate  the  thought 
of  an  essayist  but  also  for  its  own  sake  in  stories  founded  on 
character. 

About  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century  stories  of 
an  uncanny  nature, — of  ghosts  and  strange  events, — the  so- 
called  "Gothic"  stories, — became  widely  popular.  Two  Ger- 
man writers,  E.  T.  A.  Hoffmann,  1776-1822,  and  Ludwig  Tieck, 
1773-1853,  wrote  with  such  peculiar  power  that  they  led  other 
writers  to  imitate  them.  Among  the  followers  of  Tieck  and 
Hoffmann  the  most  notable  name  is  that  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

Poe's  contemporaries,  Washington  Irving,  1783-1859,  and 
Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  1804-1864,  likewise  showed  the  in- 
fluence of  the  ' '  Gothic ' '  school  of  writing.  Irving  turned  the 
ghostly  into  humor,  as  in  The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollaw; 
Hawthorne  wrote  of  the  mysterious  in  terms  of  fancy  and 
allegory,  as  in  Ethan  Brand,  The  Birth  Mark,  and  Rappac- 
cini's  Daughter;  Poe  directed  all  his  energy  to  the  produc- 
tion of  single  effect, — frequently  the  effect  of  horror,  as  in 
The  Cask  of  Amontillado,  The  Black  Cat  and  The  Pit  and  the 
Pendulum.  Poe 's  natural  ability  as  a  constructive  artist,  and 
his  genuine  interest  in  story-telling,  led  him  to  formulate  the 
five   principles   of   the  short   story: — brevity,   single    effect, 


XXIV 


INTRODUCTION 


verisimilitude,  the  omission  of  the  non-essential,  and  finality. 
From  the  time  when  Poe  pointed  the  way  the  short  story 
has  had  an  unparalleled  development.  French  writers  like 
Guy  de  Maupassant ;  British  writers  like  Rudyard  Kipling ; 
Russian  writers  like  Count  Leo  Tolstoi,  and  American 
writers  like  O.  Henry,  Richard  Harding  Davis,  Frank  R. 
Stockton,  Mary  E.  Wilkins  Freeman,  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich, 
F.  Hopkinson  Smith,  Jack  London,  and  a  thousand  others, 
have  carried  on  the  great  tradition. 


AUTHORS  OF  SHORT  STORIES  WELL  WORTH 

READING 

Volumes  containing  short  stories  by  the  following  writers 
will  be  found  in  any  public  library.  Any  one  who  wishes 
to  gain  an  understanding  of  the  principles  of  the  short  story 
should  read  a  number  of  stories  by  every  writer  named  in 
the  list. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  Washington  Irving 

Hans  Christian  Andersen  Myra  Kelly 

James  Matthew  Barrie  Rudyard  Kipling 

Alice  Brown  Jack  London 

Henry  Cuyler  Bunner  Brander  Matthews 

Richard  Harding  Davis  Ian  Maclaren 

Margaret  Deland  Fiona  McLeod 

Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

Eugene  Field  Thomas  Nelson  Page 

Mary  E.  Wilkins  Freeman  Ernest  Thompson  Seton 

Hamlin  Garland  F.  Hopkinson  Smith 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne  Frank  R.  Stockton 

Joel  Chandler  Harris  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

O.  Henry  Ruth  McEnery  Stuart 

Bret  Harte  Henry  Van  Dyke 


CONTENTS 

PAG* 

PREFACE    \ 

INTRODUCTION         ix 

I     The  Writing  of  Essays .  ix 

II    Nature  of  the  Essay xi 

III  Types  of  the  Essay xii 

IV  The  Development  of  the  Essay xiv 

V    Essays  Well  Worth  Reading  .........  xvi 

VI    The  Writing  of  Short  Stories   ........  xviii 

VII    Nature  of  the  Short  Story xix 

VIII    Types  of  the  Short  Story xx 

IX     The  Development  of  the  Short  Story xxii 

X    Authors  of  Short  Stories  Well  Worth  Reading  .     .     .  xxiv 

THE  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 

The   Pup-Dog Bobert  Palfrey  Utter  3 

Chewing  Gum Charles  Dudley  Warner  11 

The  Mystery  of  Ah  Sing Bobert  L.  Duffus  16 

Old    Doc Opie  Bead  19 

Christmas  Shopping Helen  Davenport  26 

Sunday   Bells Cfertrude  Henderson  28 

Discovery .           Georges  Duliamel  31 

The    Furrows Gilbert   K.   Chesterton  36 

Meditation  and  Imagination  .     .     Hamilton  Wright  Mabie  40 

Who  Owns  the  Mountains!  ....     Henry  Van  Dyke  49 

THE  LEGENDARY  STORY 

Running  Wolf Algernon    Blackwood  55 

THE  BIOGRAPHICAL  ESSAY 

How  I  Found  America Anzia  Yezierska  77 

Memories  of  Childhood       .     .     .       William  Henry  Shelton  94 

A  Visit  to  John  Burroughs  .     .     .     Sadakichi  Hartmann  100 

Washington  on  Horseback     ......       H.  A.  Ogden  108 


xxvi  CONTENTS 

THE  HISTORICAL  STORY  page 

Havelok    the    Dane     .......      George  Philip  Krapp  118 

THE  STORY  ESSAY 

Politics  Up  to  Date     .      .     ,.:    ...     .     Frederick  Lewis  Allen  136 

Free  !         .......    ...     >.     .     ;.:   Charles  Hanson  Towne  143 

THE  STORY  OF  ADVENTURE 

Prunier  Tells  a  Story     .     .     . .    :.      T.  Morris  Longstreth  148 

THE   DIDACTIC  ESSAY 

The    American    Boy     .....     ...     .     Theodore  Eoosevelt  168 

The   Spirit   op   Adventure     .      .     :.    Hildegarde  Hawthorne  176 

Vanishing    New    York      .     Eobert  and  Elizabeth  Shackleton  184 

The  Songs  op  the  Civil  War     .      .      .      Brander  Matthews  203 

Locomotion  in  the  Twentieth  Century     .     .     H.  G.  Wells  210 

The  Writing  op  Essays     .      .     :.:    ..     M      Charles  S.  Brooks  219 

The  Rhythm  op  Prose     .     ,«    ..     ..     ..     .      Abram  Lipsky  225 

THE  REALISTIC  STORY 

The  Chinaman  's   Head     .     .     .     ,.     .  William  Rose  Benet  230 

Getting  Up  to  Date     .      .     :.     ...    >      .     ,.     Roberta  Wayne  239 

The  Lion  and  the  Mouse     .     :.     ,.     .      .    Joseph  B.  Ames  253 

THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 

Coddling  in   Education     .     ..     :.     ..     .  Henry  Seidel  Canby  267 

A   Successful   Failure     ., Glenn  Frank  271 

The  Drolleries  op  Clothes     ......    Agnes  Bepplier  278 

POETIC  PROSE 

Children         Yukio  Ozaki  284 

Ships  That  Lift  Tall  Spires  op  Canvas     .     Ralph  D.  Paine  287 

PERSONALITY  IN  CORRESPONDENCE 

The  Statue  of  General  Sherman     .      .    Theodore  Roosevelt  291 
The  Roosevelt  Saint-Gaudens  Correspondence  Concerning 

Coinage,  Theodore  Roosevelt  and  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  292 

THE  SYMBOLIC  STORY 

Hi-Brasil Ralph  Durand  300 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

"Havelok  had  all  he  wanted  to  eat"     .     .-,     .     .,     .     .      .Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

The  feeling  stole  over  him  without  the  slightest  warning.     He  was 

not  alone     .      ..,...:     .           ...    ,.;     .,    ...•     .-.     .      .:     „  60 

My  great-grandmother 96 

Colonel  Humphreys  landed  in  the  ditch       „    N    M     ,;    M    M    w    M  116 

"You  made  a  fine  signal"    ...... •     .,    ..,    :„     .     M    :„  164 

It  has  been  called  the  oldest  building  in  New  York 188 

*'A-ah,  mystery!"  said  Mrs.  Eevis,  clasping  her  beautiful  hands 

and  gazing  upward.     ' '  I  adore  mystery !  " 236 

"Isn't  this  great!      They're  here,  every  one   of  them!      You're 

awfully  good  to  let  us  use  the  phonograph  " 248 

At  the  very  take-off,  a  gasp  of  horror  was  jolted  from  his  iips  .  264 

The  fluctuations  of  fashion  are  alternately  a  grievance  and  a  solace  280 

Its  humming  shrouds  were  vibrant  with  the  eternal  call  of  the  sea  288 

Designing  the  ten-  and  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces 292 


MODERN  ESSAYS 
AND  STORIES 


THE  FAMILIAR  ESSAY 
THE  PUP-DOG 

By  EOBERT  PALFREY  UTTER 

(1875 — ).  Associate  Professor  of  English  in  the  University 
of  California.  He  taught  for  a  time  at  Harvard  and  also  at 
Amherst.  He  is  a  delightful  essayist,  and  contributes  fre- 
quently to  various  magazines. 

The  writer  of  a  familiar  essay  selects  any  subject  in  which  he  is 
interested.  Sometimes  the  more  trifling  the  subject  seems  to  be,  the 
more  delightful  is  the  essay.  Trifles,  in  fact,  make  up  life,  and  around 
them  center  many  of  our  deepest  interests.  The  very  charm  of  the 
familiar  essay  lies  in  its  ability  to  call  attention  to  the  value  of  trifles, 
— to  the  little  things  in  life,  to  little  events,  and  to  all  the  odds  and 
ends  of  human  interests. 

The  familiar  essay  is  nothing  more  than  happy  talk  that  gives  us, 
as  it  were,  a  walk  or  a  chat  with  one  who  has  a  keen  mind*  a  ready  wit, 
and  a  pleasant  spirit. 

The  Pup-Dog  is  an  unusually  excellent  illustration  of  the  familiar 
essay.  We  all  love  him, — 'the  pup-dog, — the  good  friend  about  whom 
Mr.  Utter  has  written  so  amusingly,  so  understandingly,  and  so  sympa- 
thetically. As  we  read  we  can  see  the  dog  jumping  and  hear  him  bark- 
ing; we  laugh  at  his  antics;  we  are,  in  fact,  taking  a  walk  with  Mr. 
Utter  while  he  talks  to  us  about  his  dog, — or  our  dog. 

Any  dog  is  a  pup-dog  so  long  as  he  prefers  a  rat,  dead  or 
alive,  to  chocolate  fudge,  a  moldy  bone  to  sponge  cake,  a  fight 
with  a  woodchuck  to  hanging  round  the  tea-table  for  sweet 
biscuit.  Of  course  he  will  show  traits  of  age  as  years  advance, 
but  usually  they  are  physical  traits,  not  emotional.  For  the 
most  part  dogs'  affections  burn  warmly,  and  their  love  of  life 
and  experience  brightly,  while  life  lasts.  They  remain  young, 
as  poets  do.  Every  dog  is  a  pup-dog,  but  some  are  more  so 
than  others. 

Most  so  of  all  is  the  Irish  terrier.    To  me  he  stands  as  the 

3 


4  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

archetype  of  the  dog,  and  the  doggier  a  dog  is,  the  better  I 
like  him.  I  love  the  collie;  none  better.  I  have  lived  with 
him,  and  ranged  the  hills  with  him  in  every  kind  of  weather, 
and  you  can  hardly  tell  me  a  story  of  his  loyalty  and  intel- 
ligence that  I  cannot  go  you  one  better.  But  the  collie  is  a 
gentleman.  He  has  risen  from  the  ranks,  to  be  sure,  but  he  is 
every  inch  the  gentleman,  and  just  now  I  am  speaking  of  dogs. 
The  terrier  is  every  inch  a  dog,  and  the  Irish  is  the  terrier 
par  excellence. 

The  man  who  mistakes  him  for  an  Airedale,  as  many  do,  is 
one  who  does  not  know  an  Irishman  from  a  Scot.  The  Aire- 
dale has  a  touch  of  the  national  dourness;  I  believe  that  he 
is  a  Calvinist  at  heart,  with  a  severe  sense  of  personal  respon- 
sibility. The  Irish  terrier  can  atone  vicariously  or  not  at  all 
for  his  light-hearted  sins.  The  Airedale  takes  his  romance 
and  his  fighting  as  seriously  as  an  Alan  Breck.  The  Irish 
terrier  has  all  the  imagination  and  humor  of  his  race;  he 
has  a  rollicking  air;  he  is  whimsical,  warm-hearted,  jaunty, 
and  has  the  gift  of  blarney.  He  loves  a  scrimmage  better  than 
his  dinner,  but  he  bears  no  malice. 

His  fellest  earthly  foes, 
Cats,  he  does  but  affect  to  hate. 

The  terrier  family  is  primarily  a  jolly,  good-natured  crowd 
whose  business  it  is  to  dig  into  the  lairs  of  burrowing  creatures 
and  fight  them  at  narrow  quarters.  The  signal  for  the  fight 
is  the  attack  on  the  intrusive  nose.  You  can  read  this  family 
history  in  the  pup-dog's  treatment  of  the  cat.  The  cat  of 
his  own  household  with  whom  he  is  brought  up  he  rallies  with 
good-humored  banter,  but  he  is  less  likely  to  hurt  her  than 
she  him.  He  will  take  her  with  him  on  his  morning  round 
of  neighborhood  garbage-pails,  and  even  warm  her  kittens  on 
his  back  as  he  lies  in  the  square  of  sunshine  on  the  kitchen 
floor,  till  they  begin  to  knead  their  tiny  claws  into  him  in  a 
futile  search  for  nourishment;  then  he  shakes  them  patiently 
off  and  seeks  rest  elsewhere.  He  will  chase  any  cat  as  long 
as  she  will  run ;  if  she  refuses  to  run,  he  will  dance  round  her 
and  bark,  trying  to  get  up  a  game.    "Be  a  sport!"  he  taunts 


THE  PUP-DOG  3 

her.  ' '  Take  a  chance ! ' '  But  if  she  claws  his  nose,  she  treads 
on  the  tail  of  his  coat,  and  no  Irish  gentleman  will  stand 
for  that. 

Similar  are  his  tactics  with  human  creatures.  First  he 
tries  a  small  bluff  to  see  if  he  can  start  anything.  If  his 
victim  shows  signs  of  fear,  he  redoubles  his  effort,  his  tail  the 
while  signaling  huge  delight  at  his  success.  If  the  victim 
shows  fight,  he  may  develop  the  attack  in  earnest.  The  victim 
who  shows  either  fear  or  fight  betrays  complete  ignorance  of 
dog  nature,  for  the  initial  bluff  is  always  naively  transparent; 
the  pup-dog  may  have  a  poker  face,  but  his  tail  is  a  rank 
traitor.  A  nest  of  yellow- jackets  in  a  hole  in  the  ground 
challenges  his  every  instinct.  He  cocks  his  ear  at  the  subter- 
ranean buzzing,  tries  a  little  tentative  excavation  with  cau- 
tious paw.  Soon  one  of  the  inmates  scores  on  the  tip  of  his 
nose,  and  war  is  declared  in  earnest.  There  are  leaping 
attacks  with  clashing  of  teeth,  and  wildly  gyrating  rear-guard 
actions.  Custom  cannot  stale  the  charm  of  the  spot ;  all  sum- 
mer, so  long  as  there  is  a  wing  stirring,  hornets  shall  be  hot  i' 
the  mouth. 

The  degree  of  youth  which  the  pup-dog  attains  and  holds 
is  that  of  the  human  male  of  eleven  or  twelve  years.  He 
nurses  an  inextinguishable  quarrel  with  the  hair-brush.  His 
hatred  of  the  formal  bath  is  chronic,  but  he  will  paddle 
delightedly  in  any  casual  water  out  of  doors,  regardless  of 
temperatures  and  seasons.  At  home  he  will  sometimes  scoff  at 
plain,  wholesome  food,  but  to  the  public  he  gives  the  impres- 
sion that  his  family  systematically  starve  him,  and  his  dietetic 
experiments  often  have  weird  and  disastrous  results.  You 
can  never  count  on  his  behavior  except  on  formal  occasions, 
when  you  know  to  a  certainty  that  he  will  disgrace  you.  His 
curiosity  is  equaled  only  by  his  adroitness  in  getting  out  of 
awkward  situations  into  which  it  plunges  him.  His  love  of 
play  is  unquenchable  by  weariness  or  hunger;  there  is  no 
time  when  the  sight  of  a  ball  will  not  rouse  him  to  clamorous 
activity. 

For  fine  clothes  he  has  a  satiric  contempt,  and  will  almost 
invariably  manage  to  land  a  dirty  footprint  on  white  waist- 


0  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

coat  or  "ice-cream  pants"  in  the  first  five  minutes  of  their 
immaculacy.  He  is  one  hundred  per  cent,  motor-minded; 
when  he  is  "stung  with  the  splendor  of  a  sudden  thought,"  he 
springs  to  immediate  action.  In  the  absence  of  any  ideas  he 
relaxes  and  sleeps  with  the  abandon  of  a  jute  door-mat. 

Dog  meets  dog  as  boy  meets  boy,  with  assertions  of  supe- 
riority, challenge,  perhaps  fight,  followed  by  friendship  and 
play.  No  wonder  that  with  pup-boys  the  pup-dog  is  so  com- 
pletely at  one;  his  code  is  their  code,  and  whither  they  go 
he  goes — except  to  school.  With  September  come  the  dull 
days  for  him.  No  more  the  hordes  of  pirates  and  bandits 
with  bandanas  and  peaked  hats,  belts  stuck  full  of  dirks  and 
"  ottermaticks, "  sweep  up  and  down  the  sidewalk  on  bicycles 
in  open  defiance  of  the  law,  raiding  lawns  and  gardens,  scat- 
tering shrieking  tea-parties  of  little  girls  and  dolls,  haling 
them  aboard  the  lugger  in  the  next  lot  and  holding  them 
for  fabulous  ransom.  There  is  always  some  one  who  will 
pay  it  with  an  imposing  check  signed  "Theodore  Wilson 
Eoosevelt  Woodrow  Rockefeller."  He  prances  with  flop- 
ping ears  beside  the  flying  wheels,  crouches  in  ambush,  gives 
tongue  in  the  raid,  flies  at  the  victims  and  tears  their 
frocks,  mounts  guard  in  the  cave,  and  shares  the  bandits'  last 
cookie. 

But  when  the  pirates  become  orderly  citizens,  his  day 
begins  after  school  and  ends  with  supper.  With  his  paws 
on  the  window-sill,  his  nose  making  misty  spots  on  the  glass, 
he  watches  them  as  they  march  away  in  the  morning,  then 
he  makes  a  perfunctory  round  of  the  neighborhood,  inspecting 
garbage-pails  and  unwary  cats.  After  that  there  is  nothing 
to  do  but  relax  in  the  September  sunshine  and  exist  in  a 
coma  till  the  pirates  return  and  resume  their  normal  functions, 
except  for  his  routine  attempt  to  intimidate  the  postman  and 
the  iceman.  Perhaps  he  might  succeed  some  happy  day; 
who  knows  1 

The  pup-dog  in  the  open  is  the  best  of  companions;  his 
exuberant  vitality  and  unquenchable  zest  for  things  in  general 
give  him  endless  variety.    There  are  times,  perhaps,  when  you 


THE  PUP-DOG  7 

*ee  little  of  him ;  he  uses  you  as  a  mobile  base  of  operations, 
and  runs  an  epicycloidal  course  with  you  as  moving  center, 
showing  only  a  flash  of  his  tail  on  one  horizon  or  the  flop  of 
his  ears  on  the  other.  You  hear  his  wild  cries  of  excitement 
when  he  starts  a  squirrel  or  a  rabbit.  By  rare  luck  you  may 
be  called  in  time  to  referee  a  fight  with  a  woodchuck,  or  once 
in  a  happy  dog's  age  you  may  see  him,  a  khaki  streak  through 
the  underbrush,  in  pursuit  of  a  fox. 

At  last  you  hear  the  drumming  of  his  feet  on  the  road 
behind  you;  he  shoots  past  before  he  can  shift  gears,  wheels, 
and  lands  a  running  jump  on  your  diaphragm  bj^  way  of 
reporting  present  for  duty.  Thereafter  he  sticks  a  little  closer, 
popping  out  into  the  road  or  showing  his  tousled  face  through 
the  leaves  at  intervals  of  two  or  three  hundred  yards  to  make 
sure  that  you  are  still  on  the  planet.  Then  you  may  enjoy 
his  indefatigable  industry  in  counting  with  his  nose,  his  tail 
quivering  with  delight,  the  chinks  of  old  stone  walls.  You 
may  light  your  pipe  and  sit  by  for  an  hour  as  he  energetically 
follows  his  family  tradition  in  digging  under  an  old  stump, 
shooting  the  sand  out  behind  with  kangaroo  strokes,  tugging 
at  the  roots  with  his  teeth,  and  pausing  from  time  to  time 
to  grin  at  you  with  a  yard  of  pink  tongue  completely  sur- 
rounded by  leaf  mold.  You  may  admire  his  zeal  as  in- 
spector of  chipmunks,  mice,  frogs,  grasshoppers,  crickets,  and 
such  small  deer.  Anything  that  lives  and  tries  to  get  away 
from  him  is  fair  game  except  chickens.  If  round  the  turn 
of  the  road  he  plumps  into  a  hen  convention,  memories  of 
bitter  humiliations  surge  up  within  him,  and  he  blushes,  and 
turns  his  face  aside.  Other  dogs  he  meets  with  tentative 
growling,  bristling,  and  tail-wagging,  by  way  of  asserting 
that  he  will  take  them  on  any  terms  they  like ;  fight  or  frolic, 
it  is  all  one  to  him. 

You  cannot  win  his  allegiance  by  feeding  him,  though  he 
always  has  his  bit  of  blarney  ready  for  the  cook.  He  loves 
all  members  of  the  family  with  nice  discrimination  for  their 
weaknesses:  the  pup-boy  who  cannot  resist  an  invitation 
to  romp;  the  pup-girl  who  cannot  withstand  begging  blan- 


6  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

dishments  of  nose  and  paw,  but  will  subvert  discipline  and 
share  food  with  him  whenever  and  wherever  she  has  it.  He 
will  welcome  with  leapings  and  gyrations  any  one  of  them 
after  a  day's  absence  or  an  hour's,  but  his  whole-souled  alle- 
giance is  to  the  head  of  the  house;  his  is  the  one  voice  that 
speaks  with  authority;  his  the  first  welcome  always  when 
the  family  returns  in  a  group.  That  loyalty,  burning  bright 
and  true  to  the  last  spark  of  life,  that  unfailing  welcome  on 
which  a  man  can  count  more  surely  than  on  any  human  love 
— indeed,  there  is  no  secret  in  a  man's  love  for  a  dog,  how- 
ever we  may  wonder  at  the  dog's  love  for  the  man.  Let 
Argos  and  Ulysses1  stand  as  the  type  of  it,  though  to  me  it 
lacks  something  of  the  ideal,  not  in  the  image  of  the  dog,  but 
in  the  conduct  of  the  man.  Were  I  disguised  for  peril  of 
my  life,  and  my  dog,  after  the  wanderings  and  dangers  of 
many  years,  lifted  his  head  and  knew  me  and  then  died,  I 
think  no  craft  could  withhold  my  feelings  from  betraying 
me. 

"Dogs  know  their  friends,"  we  say,  as  if  there  were  mystery 
in  the  knowledge.  The  password  of  the  fraternity  is  not 
hidden ;  you  may  hear  it  anywhere.  It  was  spoken  at  my  own 
hearth  when  the  pup-dog,  wet  with  autumn  rain,  thrust  him- 
self between  my  guest  and  the  andirons  and  began  to  steam. 
My  guest  checked  my  remonstrance.  "Don't  disturb  him 
on  my  account,  you  know.  I  rather  like  the  smell  of  a  wet 
dog,"  he  added  apologetically.  The  word  revealed  a  back- 
ground that  made  the  speaker  at  once  and  forever  my  guest- 
friend.  In  it  I  saw  boy  and  dog  in  rain  and  snow  on  wet 
trails,  their  camp  in  narrow  shelter,  Avhere  they  snuggle  to- 
gether with  all  in  common  that  they  have  of  food  and  warmth. 
He  who  shared  his  boyhood  with  a  pup-dog  will  always  share 
whatever  is  his  with  members  of  the  fraternity.  He  will  value 
the  wagging  of  a  stubby  tail  above  all  dog-show  points  and 
parlor  tricks.  He  will  not  be  rash  to  chide  affectionate  impor- 
tunity,  nor  to   set   for   his   dog   higher  standards   than   he 

1  According  to  Homer's  Odyssey  when  Ulysses  returned  after  many 
years  of  wandering,  his  old  dog  "Argos"  recognized  him,  even  i* 
disguise. 


THE  PUP-DOG  9 

upholds  for  himself.  Do  you  never  nurse  a  grouch  and 
express  it  in  appropriate  language?  Do  you  never  take  direct 
action  when  your  feelings  get  away  with  you?  When  the 
like  befalls  the  pup-dog,  have  ready  for  him  such  sympathy 
as  he  has  always  ready  for  you  in  your  moods.  Treat  him 
as  an  equal,  and  you  will  get  from  him  human  and  imperfect 
results. 

You  will  never  know  exactly  what  your  pup-dog  gets  from 
you ;  he  tries  wistfully  to  tell  you,  but  leaves  you  still  wonder- 
ing. But  you  may  have  from  him  a  share  of  his  perennial 
puphood,  and  you  do  well  to  accept  it  gratefully  whenever  he 
offers  it.  Take  it  when  it  comes,  though  the  moment  seem 
inopportune.  You  may  be  roused  just  as  you  settle  for  a 
nap  by  a  moist  nose  thrust  into  your  hand,  two  rough  brown 
paws  on  the  edge  of  your  bunk,  a  pair  of  bright  eyes  peering 
through  a  jute  fringe.  Up  he  comes,  steps  over  you,  and 
settles  down  between  you  and  the  wall  with  a  sigh.  Then,  if 
you  shut  your  eyes,  you  will  find  that  you  are  not  far  from 
that  place  up  on  the  hill — the  big  rock  and  the  two  oaks — 
where  the  pup-boy  that  used  to  be  you  used  to  snuggle  down 
with  that  first  old  pup-dog  you  ever  had. 


SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  What  is  the  effect  of  the  title? 

2.  How  does  Mr.  Utter  make  us  love  the  dog1? 

3.  What  knowledge  of  dog  life  does  the  writer  show? 

4.  Point  out  words  or  expressions  that  are  usually  applied  only  to 

human  beings,  that  are  here  applied  to  dogs. 

5.  Point  out  adjective  effects. 

6.  How  does  the  writer  make  the  dog  seem  amusing? 

7.  How  does  the  writer  make  the  dog  seem  admirable? 

8.  What  human  characteristics  are  attributed  to  the  dog? 

9.  Point  out  noteworthy  examples  of  humor. 

10.  Show  how  the  writer  employs  detail  as  a  means  of  emphasis. 

11.  Point  out  examples  of  especially  effective  metaphor. 

12.  What  is  said  concerning  the  pup-boy  and  the  pup-girl? 

13.  How  does  the  essay  make  us  feel  toward  dogs? 

14.  What  is  the  effect  of  the  closing  sentences? 


10 


MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 


SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 


1.  My  Dog 

2.  Lap  Dogs 

3.  Police  Dogs 

4.  Hounds 

5.  Shepherd  Dogs 

6.  Boston  Bulls 

7.  Great  Danes 

8.  Newfoundland  Dogs 

9.  Greyhounds 
10.  Stray  Dogs 


11.  Cats 

12.  Kittens 

13.  Rabbits 

14.  Mice 

15.  Squirrels 

16.  Horses 

17.  Robins 

18.  Sea  Gulls 

19.  Cows 

20.  Fish 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

Select  for  your  subject  some  animal  with  which  you  are  intimately 
familiar,  and  in  which  you  are  especially  and  sympathetically  inter- 
ested. Write  about  that  animal  in  such  a  way  that  you  will  bring 
to  the  surface  its  most  humorous  qualities  and  its  most  admirable 
qualities.  Give  a  great  number  of  details  concerning  the  animal's 
habits,  but  give  those  details  in  a  gossipy  manner.  Use  quotations, 
if  you  can,  or  make  allusions  to  books.  Make  all  your  work  empha- 
size goodness.  Make  your  closing  paragraph  your  most  effective 
paragraph, — one  that  will  appeal  to  sentiment. 


CHEWING  GUM* 

By  CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 

(1829-1900).  A  celebrated  American  essayist  and  editor. 
For  many  years  he  wrote  brilliant  papers  for  Harper's  Maga- 
zine in  the  departments  called  "The  Editor's  Drawer"  and 
"The  Editor's  Study."  Ee  became  the  first  President  of  the 
National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Letters.  He  was  a  great  in- 
fluence for  good.  Among  his  boolcs  are  My  Summer  in  a 
Garden;  Back-Log  Studies;  In  the  Wilderness;  The  Relation 
of  Literature  to  Life;  As  We  Were  Saying;  Their  Pilgrimage. 
Ee  edited  the  valuable  "American  Men  of  Letters  Series," 
and  the  remarkable  worh  called  Library  of  the  World's  Best 
Literature,  a  collection  of  extracts  from  the  ivorld's  literature, 
with  which  every  student  should  be  acquainted. 

The  familiar  essay  takes  for  its  subject  anything  that  awakens  the 
Interest  of  the  essayist.  Charles  Dudley  Warner  wrote  with  freedom 
and  humor  on  a  great  number  of  subjects  that  in  themselves  suggest 
light  and  humorous  treatment  rather  than  serious  thinking.  Among 
his  many  informal  essays  is  the  one  that  follows,  entitled  Chewing  Gum. 

What  Mr.  Warner  says  in  the  essay  is  by  no  means  serious.  It  is 
like  the  spoken  reflections  of  an  amused  observer  who  has  had  his 
attention  attracted  to  the  common  American  habit  of  chewing  gum  in 
public.  At  the  same  time,  under  the  kindly  and  facetious  remarks,  is 
an  undercurrent  of  satire — and  satire  means  criticism. 

In  language  that  is  unfortunately  understood  by  the  greater 
portion  of  the  people  who  speak  English,  thousands  are 
saying  on  the  first  of  January,  a  far-off  date  that  it  is 
wonderful  any  one  has  lived  to  see — "Let  us  have  a  new 
deal ! "  It  is  a  natural  exclamation,  and  does  not  necessarily 
mean  any  change  of  purpose.  It  always  seems  to  a  man  that 
if  he  could  shuffle  the  cards  he  could  increase  his  advantages 
in  the  game  of  life,  and,  to  continue  the  figure  which  needs 
so  little  explanation,  it  usually  appears  to  him  that  he  could 
play  anybody  else 's  hand  better  than  his  own.    In  all  the  good 

*  From  As  We  Were  Saying,  by  Charles  Dudley  Warner.  Copyright 
by  Harper  and  Brothers. 

11 


12  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

resolutions  of  the  new  year,  then,  it  happens  that  perhaps 
the  most  sincere  is  the  determination  to  get  a  better  hand. 
Many  mistake  this  for  repentance  and  an  intention  to  reform, 
when  generally  it  is  only  the  desire  for  a  new  shuffle  of  the 
cards.  Let  us  have  a  fresh  pack  and  a  new  deal,  and  start 
fair.  It  seems  idle,  therefore,  for  the  moralist  to  indulge 
in  a  homily  about  annual  good  intentions,  and  habits  that 
ought  to  be  dropped  or  acquired,  on  the  first  of  January.  He 
can  do  little  more  than  comment  on  the  passing  show. 

It  will  be  admitted  that  if  the  world  at  this  date  is  not 
socially  reformed  it  is  not  the  fault  of  the  Drawer,1  and  for 
the  reason  that  it  has  been  not  so  much  a  critic  as  an  explainer 
and  encourager.  It  is  in  the  latter  character  that  it  under- 
takes to  defend  and  justify  a  national  industry  that  has 
become  very  important  within  the  past  ten  years.  A  great 
deal  of  capital  is  invested  in  it,  and  millions  of  people  are 
actively  employed  in  it.  The  varieties  of  chewing  gum  that 
are  manufactured  would  be  a  matter  of  surprise  to  those  who 
have  paid  no  attention  to  the  subject,  and  who  may  suppose 
that  the  millions  of  mouths  they  see  engaged  in  its  mastica- 
tion have  a  common  and  vulgar  taste.  From  the  fact  that  it 
can  be  obtained  at  the  apothecary's,  an  impression  has  got 
abroad  that  it  is  medicinal.  This  is  not  true.  The  medical 
profession  do  not  use  it,  and  what  distinguishes  it  from 
drugs — that  they  also  do  not  use — is  the  fact  that  they  do  not 
prescribe  it.  It  is  neither  a  narcotic  nor  a  stimulant.  It 
cannot  strictly  be  said  to  soothe  or  to  excite.  The  habit  of 
using  it  differs  totally  from  that  of  the  chewing  of  tobacco 
or  the  dipping  of  snuff.  It  might,  by  a  purely  mechanical 
operation,  keep  a  person  awake,  but  no  one  could  go  to  sleep 
chewing  gum.  It  is  in  itself  neither  tonic  nor  sedative.  It 
is  to  be  noticed  also  that  the  gum  habit  differs  from  the 
tobacco  habit  in  that  the  aromatic  and  elastic  substance  is 
masticated,  while  the  tobacco  never  is,  and  that  the  mastica- 
tion leads  to  nothing  except  more  mastication.     The  task  is 

1  Drawer.     The  Editor's  Drawer  of  Harper's  Magazine  for  which  Mr. 
Warner  wrote  many   of   his  best   essays. 


CHEWING  GUM  13 

one  that  can  never  be  finished.  The  amount  of  energy  ex- 
pended in  this  process  if  capitalized  or  conserved  would 
produce  great  results.  Of  course  the  individual  does  little, 
but  if  the  power  evolved  by  the  practice  in  a  district  school 
could  be  utilized,  it  would  suffice  to  run  the  kindergarten 
department.  The  writer  has  seen  a  railway  car — say  in  the 
West — filled  with  young  women,  nearly  every  one  of  whose 
jaws  and  pretty  mouths  was  engaged  in  this  pleasing  occupa- 
tion; and  so  much  power  was  generated  that  it  would,  if 
applied,  have  kept  the  car  in  motion  if  the  steam  had  been 
shut  off — at  least  it  would  have  furnished  the  motive  for 
illuminating  the  car  by  electricity. 

This  national  industry  is  the  subject  of  constant  detrac- 
tion, satire,  and  ridicule  by  the  newspaper  press.  This  is 
because  it  is  not  understood,  and  it  may  be  because  it  is 
mainly  a  female  accomplishment :  the  few  men  who  chew  gum 
may  be  supposed  to  do  so  by  reason  of  gallantry.  There 
might  be  no  more  sympathy  with  it  in  the  press  if  the  real 
reason  for  the  practice  were  understood,  but  it  would  be 
treated  more  respectfully.  Some  have  said  that  the  practice 
arises  from  nervousness — the  idle  desire  to  be  busy  without 
doing  anything — and  because  it  fills  up  the  pauses  of  vacuity 
in  conversation.  But  this  would  not  fully  account  for  the 
practice  of  it  in  solitude.  Some  have  regarded  it  as  in 
obedience  to  the  feminine  instinct  for  the  cultivation  of 
patience  and  self-denial — patience  in  a  fruitless  activity,  and 
self-denial  in  the  eternal  act  of  mastication  without  swallow- 
ing. It  is  no  more  related  to  these  virtues  than  it  is  to  the 
habit  of  the  reflective  cow  in  chewing  her  cud.  The  cow 
would  never  chew  gum.  The  explanation  is  a  more  philo- 
sophical one,  and  relates  to  a  great  modern  social  movement. 
It  is  to  strengthen  and  develop  and  make  more  masculine 
the  lower  jaw.  The  critic  who  says  that  this  is  needless,  that 
the  inclination  in  women  to  talk  would  adequately  develop 
this,  misses  the  point  altogether.  Even  if  it  could  be  proved 
that  women  are  greater  chatterers  than  men,  the  critic  would 
gain  nothing.    Women  have  talked  freely  since  creation,  but 


14  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

it  remains  true  that  a  heavy,  strong  lower  jaw  is  a  distinc- 
tively masculine  characteristic.  It  is  remarked  that  if  a 
woman  has  a  strong  lower  jaw  she  is  like  a  man.  Conversa- 
tion does  not  create  this  difference,  nor  remove  it;  for  the 
development  of  the  lower  jaw  in  women  constant  mechanical 
exercise  of  the  muscles  is  needed.  Now,  a  spirit  of  emancipa- 
tion, of  emulation,  is  abroad,  as  it  ought  to  be,  for  the  regen- 
eration of  the  world.  It  is  sometimes  called  the  coming  to 
the  front  of  woman  in  every  act  and  occupation  that  used  to 
belong  almost  exclusively  to  man.  It  is  not  necessary  to  say 
a  word  tc  justify  this.  But  it  is  often  accompanied  by  a 
misconception,  namely,  that  it  is  necessaiy  for  woman  to  be 
like  man,  not  only  in  habits,  but  in  certain  physical  character- 
istics. No  woman  desires  a  beard,  because  a  beard  means 
care  and  trouble,  and  would  detract  from  feminine  beauty, 
but  to  have  a  strong  and,  in  appearance,  a  resolute  underjaw 
may  be  considered  a  desirable  note  of  masculinity,  and  of 
masculine  power  and  privilege,  in  the  good  time  coming. 
Hence  the  cultivation  of  it  by  the  chewing  of  gun.  it  a 
recognizable  and  reasonable  instinct,  and  the  practice  can 
be  defended  as  neither  a  whim  nor  a  vain  waste  of  energy 
and  nervous  force.  In  a  generation  or  two  it  may  be  laid 
aside  as  no  longer  necessary,  or  men  may  be  compelled  to 
resort  to  it  to  preserve  their  supremacy. 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  Why   does   the  writer  make   use  of   some   very   colloquial   ex- 

pressions? 

2.  Why  did  he  use  a  number  of  long  and  somewhat  formal  words? 

3.  In  what  sense  is  the  essay  a  New  Year's  essay? 

4.  Show  how  the  author  produces  humor. 

5.  Show  how  the  author  avoids  harshness  of  criticism. 

6.  What  makes  the  essay  forceful? 

7.  In  what  respects  is  the  essay  fantastic? 

8.  What  advantage  does  the  writer  gain  by  appearing  to  support 

the  habit  of  chewing  gum? 

9.  Point  out  examples  of  kindly  satire. 
10.  What  is  the  author's  purpose? 


CHEWING  GUM 


15 


SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 


1.  Whistling 

2.  Lateness 

3.  Whispering 

4.  Giggling 

5.  Writing  notes 

6.  Complaining 

7.  Hurrying 

8.  Carelessness 

9.  Making  excuses 
10.  Borrowing 


11.  Teasing 

12.  Crowding 

13.  Rudeness 

14.  Inquisitiveness 

15.  Untidiness 

16.  Forgetfulness 

17.  Conceit 

18.  Obstinacy 

19.  Vanity 

20.  Impatience 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

You  are  to  write  of  some  habit  that  is  common  and  that  is  more 
or  less  annoying  to  well-bred  people.  Make  your  words,  in  mock 
seriousness,  appear  to  defend  the  habit  that  you  ridicule.  Make 
your  style  of  writing  somewhat  ponderous,  as  though  you  were 
writing  with  the  utmost  gravity,  but  be  sure  to  write  in  such  a  way 
that  your  essay  will  convey  your  sense  of  the  ridiculous.  Let  your 
whole  essay  so  ridicule  the  annoying  habit  that  you  will  tend  to 
destroy  it. 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  AH  SING 

By  ROBERT  L.  DUFFUS 

An  editorial  writer  for  the  New  YorTc  Globe,  to  which,  on 
October  5,  1921,  he  contributed  the  following  humorous  edi- 
torial article. 

as  we  go  about  in  daily  life  various  people  attract  our  attention; 
their  peculiarities  amuse  us,  and  we  make  semi-humorous  but  kindly 
remarks  concerning  them.  Such  remarks  are  the  germs  of  essays  like 
the  following. 

In  the  essay,  The  Mystery  of  Ah  Sing,  there  is  humor  but  not  a  single 
unkind  word.  The  essay  makes  us  smile,  but  with  sympathy  and  under- 
standing.    Such  essays,  trivial  as  they  may  be,  are  restful  and  pleasing. 

Ah  Sing  comes  on  Tuesdays  to  get  the  washing  and  on 
Saturdays  to  bring  it  back.  He  is  an  urbane,  smiling  person, 
who  appears  to  view  life  impersonally  and  dispassionately. 
One  would  say  that  he  realized  that  the  career  of  Ah  Sing 
was  not  of  prime  importance  in  a  population  so  numerous 
and  a  universe  so  extensive.  He  loves  to  ask  questions.  How 
old  is  the  mistress  of  the  house  ?  Where  did  she  come  from  ? 
How  much  does  the  master  of  the  house  earn  ?  "What  does  he 
do?  Why  haven't  they  any  children?  Where  did  they  get 
all  the  books  and  pictures? 

Ah  Sing  always  wants  to  know  about  the  vacations,  both 
before  and  after  taking,  and  looks  intelligent  when  places  like 
Nantucket  and  the  Thousand  Islands  are  mentioned.  He 
follows  the  family  fortunes  like  an  old  retainer,  and  seems 
to  possess  a  kind  of  feudal  loyalty.  It  would  be  morally 
impossible,  not  to  say  physically,  to  give  the  washing  to  any 
one  but  Ah  Sing.  He  would  come  for  it,  and  the  mistress  of 
the  house  would  sink  through  the  floor  with  contrition  and 
embarrassment.  He  may  die  out  of  his  job,  or  go  back  to 
China  out  of  it,  there  to  live  like  a  mandarin,  but  he  will 
not  be  fired  out  of  it.    Never  will  he  join  the  army  of  unem- 

16 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  AH  SING  17 

ployed;  never  will  he  stand  humbly  asking  work.     He  is  a 
monopoly,  an  institution,  a  friend. 

So  far  one  gets  with  Ah  Sing.  To  lose  him  would  be  like 
losing  a  beloved  pipe  or  a  comfortable  pair  of  slippers.  He 
belongs  amid  the  furniture  of  living,  and  is  as  simple,  homely, 
and  admirable  as  grandpa's  picture  on  the  wall.  But  what  is 
Ah  Sing  thinking  about  ?  AVhat  is  going  on  across  that  gulf 
which  separates  him  from  us?  How  many  transmigrations 
must  we  all  go  through  before  we  could  know  Ah  Sing  as 
well  as  we  know  the  family  from  Indiana  which  moved  in 
next  door  last  week?  How  shall  we  penetrate  to  the  soul  of 
Ah  Sing? 

If  we  could  answer  these  questions  we  could  present  our- 
selves forthwith  at  Washington  with  the  solution  of  the 
world's  most  vexations  problem.  But  the  answers  are  dark, 
Ah  Sing  is  remote,  and  the  East  and  the  West  have  not  yet 
met. 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  In  what  respects  is  Ah  Sing  a  mystery? 

2.  Why  did  the  author  write  about  Ah  Sing? 

3.  What  are  Ah  Sing's  amusing  characteristics? 

4.  What  are  Ah  Sing's  best  characteristics? 

-5.  Show  that  the  author's  language  is  original. 

8.  Show  that  the  essay  increases  in  effect  toward  the  end. 

7.  How  does  the  author  avoid  unkindness  or  satire? 

8.  How  does  the  essay  affect  the  reader? 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 


1. 

The  Janitor 

11. 

Grandmother 

2. 

The  Peanut  Man 

12. 

The  Milk  Man 

3. 

The  Auctioneer 

13. 

The  Small  Boy 

4. 

The  Blind  Man 

14. 

The  Newspaper  Man 

5. 

The  Tramp 

15. 

The  Usher 

6. 

The  Old  Soldier 

16. 

The  Policeman 

7. 

The  Violin  Player 

17. 

The  Street  Sweeper 

8. 

The  Dancing  Teacher 

18. 

Mother 

9. 

The  Scrub  Woman 

19. 

The  Neighbors 

10 

.  The  Baby 

20. 

Relatives 

18  MODEEN  ESSAYS  AND  STOEIES 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

Write,  with  all  kindness,  about  some  one  who  amuses  you.  Do 
not  include  in  your  essay  anything  that  will  be  in  the  nature  of 
fault-finding  or  complaint.  Point  out,  in  a  humorous  way,  the 
admirable  and  praiseworthy  characteristics  of  the  person  about 
whom  you  write.  Instead  of  writing  a  list  of  characteristics  use 
original  expressions  that  will  indicate  the  real  spirit  of  the  character. 


OLD  DOC 

By  OPIE  BEAD 

(1852 — ).  An  American  journalist,  noted  for  his  worlc  as 
Editor  of  The  Arkansas  Traveller.  Among  his  ooolcs,  most  of 
which  concern  life  in  Arkansas,  are:  Len  Gansett;  My  Young 
Master ;  An  Arkansas  Planter ;  Up  Terrapin  River ;  A  Kentucky 
Colonel;  On  the  Suwanee  River;  Miss  Polly  Lop;  The  Cap- 
tain's Romance;  The  Jucklins. 

The  character  sketch  is  interesting  for  the  same  reason  that  gossip  is 
interesting:  we  notice  our  neighbors  and  are  curious  to  learn  more 
about  them.  We  are  all  sharp  observers  of  our  fellows.  We  see  their 
oddities,  their  cranks,  and  their  amusing  habits  just  as  clearly  as  we 
see  their  virtues.  We  laugh  and  we  admire — in  much  the  same  spirit 
that  a  mother  laughs  at  her  baby,  however  much  she  loves  it. 

Character  sketches  have  been  popular  for  many  centuries.  Chaucer's 
Prologue  to  The  Canterbury  Tales  is  really  a  series  of  shrewdly -true 
character  sketches  keenly  tipped  with  humor,  and  full  of  genuine  respect 
for  goodness.  Sir  Thomas  Overbury  (1581-1613)  wrote  a  number  of 
strongly  pointed  sketches  of  character.  A  hundred  years  later  Joseph 
Addison  and  Sir  Richard  Steele  conceived  the  whimsical,  good-hearted 
Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  and  his  company  of  associates. 

Out  of  such  work  grew  not  only  the  character  sketch  of  to-day  but 
also  material  for  the  short  story  and  the  novel. 

Mr.  Read's  presentation  of  the  country  doctor  of  the  Old  South  is 
a  striking  example  of  the  character  sketch.  Following  the  example 
set  by  Addison  in  1711  Mr.  Read  first  describes  the  character  and  then 
tells  an  anecdote  that  reveals  personality.  The  entire  sketch  is  redolent 
with  good-humor. 

His  house  was  old,  with  cedar-trees  about  it,  a  big  yard, 
and  in  the  corner  a  small  office.  In  this  professional  hut 
there  was  only  one  window,  the  glass  of  which  was  dim  with 
dust  blown  from  the  road.  In  the  gentle  breeze  the  lilacs  and 
the  roses  swopped  their  perfume,  while  the  guinea-hen  arose 
from  her  cool  nest,  dug  beneath  the  dahlias,  to  chase  a  katydid 
along  the  fence,  and  then  with  raucous  cry  to  shatter  the 
silence.  The  furnishings  of  the  office  were  less  than  modest. 
In  one  corner  a  swayed  bed  threatened  to  fall,  in  another  a 
wash-stand  stood  epileptic  on  three  legs.    Nailed  against  the 

19 


20  MODEKN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

wall  was  a  protruding  cabinet,  giving  off  sick-room  memories. 
The  village  druggist,  compounder  of  the  essences  of  strange 
and  peculiar  "yarbs, "  might  have  bitter  and  pungent  medi- 
cines, but  Old  Doc,  himself  an  extractor  of  wild  juices,  had 
discovered  the  secret  of  the  swamp.  To  go  into  his  office 
and  to  come  forth  with  no  sign  was  a  confession  of  the  loss 
of  smell.  Sheep-shearing  fills  the  nostrils  with  woolly  dull- 
ness, but  sheep-shearers  could  scent  Old  Doc  as  he  drove  along 
the  road. 

In  every  country7  the  rural  doctor  is  a  natural  sprout  from 
the  soil.  His  profession  is  almost  as  old  as  the  daybreak  of 
time.  He  bled  the  ancient  Egyptian,  blistered  the  knight  of 
the  Middle  Ages,  and  poisoned  the  arrow  of  the  Iroquois. 
He  nas  been  preserved  in  fiction,  pickled  in  the  drama,  spiced 
in  romance,  and  peppered  in  satire;  but  nowhere  was  he  so 
pronounced  a  character  as  in  America,  in  the  South.  He 
knew  politics,  but  was  not  a  politician.  He  looked  upon  man 
as  a  machinist  viewing  an  engine,  but  was  not  an  atheist. 
He  cautioned  health  and  flattered  sickness.  He  listened  with 
more  patience  to  an  old  woman  harping  on  her  trouble  than 
to  a  man  in  his  prime  relating  his  experience.  His  books 
were  few,  and  the  only  medical  journal  found  in  his  office  was 
a  sample  copy.  When  his  gathered  lore  failed  him,  he  was 
wise  in  silence.  To  confess  to  any  sort  of  ignorance  would 
have  crippled  his  trade.  It  was  an  art  to  keep  loose  things 
from  rattling  in  his  head  when  he  shook  it,  and  of  this  art 
he  was  a  perfect  master.  In  raiment  he  was  not  over-adorned, 
but  near  him  you  felt  that  you  were  in  the  presence  of  clothes. 
Philosophy's  trousers  might  bag  at  the  knees,  theology's 
black  vestment  might  be  shy  a  button,  art  might  wear  a  burr 
entangled  in  its  tresses,  and  even  the  majesty  of  the  law 
might  go  forth  in  slippers  gnawed  by  a  playful  puppy;  but 
old  doc 's  ' '  duds, ' '  strong  as  they  were  in  nostril  penetration, 
must  hug  the  image  of  neatness.  He  was  usually  four  years 
behind  the  city's  fashion,  but  this  was  shrewdly  studied,  for 
to  dress  too  much  after  the  manner  of  the  flowing  present 
would  have  branded  him  a  foppish  follower.  The  men  might 
carp  at  his  clean  shirt  every  day,  but  it  won  favor  with  the 


OLD  DOC  21 

women;  and  while  robust  medicine  may  steal  secret  delight 
from  seeing  two  maul-fisted  men  punch  each  other  in  a  ring, 
it  must  openly  profess  a  preference  for  the  scandals  that 
shock  society. 

At  no  place  along  the  numerous  roads  traversed  by  old 
doc  was  there  a  sign-post  with  a  finger  pointing  toward  the 
attainment  of  an  ultimate  ambition.  No  senate  house,  no 
woolsack  of  greatness,  waited  for  him.  The  chill  of  foul 
weather  was  his  most  natural  atmosphere ;  and  should  the 
dark  night  turn  from  rain  to  sleet,  it  was  then  that  he  heard 
a  knock  and  a  "Hello!"  at  his  door.  Down  through  the  miry 
bottom-land  and  up  the  flint  hillside  flashed  the  light  of  his 
gig-lamp,  striking  responsive  shine  from  the  eye  of  the  fasci- 
nated wolf.  The  farther  he  had  to  travel,  the  less  likely  was 
he  to  collect  his  bill.  Usury  might  sell  the  widow's  cow,  for 
no  one  expected  business  to  have  a  daintiness  of  touch ;  but 
if  Doc  sued  for  his  fee,  he  was  met  even  by  the  court  with  a 
sour  look. 

A  summons  to  court  as  an  expert  witness  in  a  murder  trial 
gold-starred  the  banner  of  his  career.  It  was  then  that  he 
turned  back  to  his  heavy  book,  used  mainly  to  prop  the  door 
open.  Out  of  this  lexicon  he  dug  up  words  to  confound  the 
wise  lawyer.  It  was  in  vain  that  the  judge  commanded  him 
to  talk  not  like  the  man  in  the  moon,  but  like  a  man  of  this 
earth ;  he  was  not  to  be  shaken  from  a  pedestal  that  had  cost 
him  sweat  to  mount.  The  jury  sat  amazed  at  his  learning. 
Asked  to  explain  the  meaning  of  a  term,  he  would  proceed 
to  heap  upon  it  a  pile  of  incomprehensible  jargon.  It  was 
like  cracking  the  bones  of  the  skeleton  that  stood  behind  his 
door,  and  giving  to  each  splinter  a  sesquipedalian  name. 
When  told  that  he  might  "stand  down,"  he  walked  off  to 
enjoy  his  victory.  At  the  tavern,  in  the  evening,  he  might  be 
invited  to  sit  in  the  game,  done  with  the  hesitating  timidity  of 
awed  respect;  but  at  cards  it  was  discovered  that  he  was  an 
easy  dabbler  in  common  talk,  not  to  say  the  profanity  of  the 
flat-boatmen. 

Out  of  this  atmosphere  there  arises  the  vision  of  old  Doctor 
Bickney  of  Mississippi.     He  had  appeared  in  court  as  an 


22  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

expert  witness,  and  the  county  newspaper  had  given  him  a 
column  of  monstrous  words,  written  by  the  doctor  himself. 
He  had  examined  the  judge  for  life  insurance,  and  it  was 
hinted  that  he  had  been  invited  to  attend  a  meeting  of  the 
medical  convention,  away  off  in  Philadelphia.  His  profes- 
sional cup  was  now  about  to  foam  over,  when  there  fell  an 
evil  time. 

Bill  Saunders,  down  with  a  sort  of  swamp  fever,  was  told 
by  Dr.  Rickney  that  his  recovery  was  impossible.  Bill  was 
stubborn,  and  declined  to  accept  Doc's  verdict. 

"Why,  you  poor  old  sot,"  said  Doc,  "you  must  be  nearer 
the  end  than  I  thought,  since  you,  have  so  little  mind  as  to 
doubt  my  word.  Here  's  your  fever  so  high  that  it  has  almost 
melted  my  thermometer,  and  yet  you  question  my  professional 
forecast.  And,  besides,-  don 't  you  know  that  you  have  ruined 
your  constitution  with  liquor  ? ' ' 

Bill  blew  a  hot  breath. 

"I  don't  know  nothin'  about  constitutions  nur  the  statuary 
of  limitations,  but  I  'm  snickered  if  I  'm  goin'  to  die  to 
please  you  nur  nobody.  All  I  need  right  now  is  possum  baked 
along  with  about  a  peck  of  yams." 

' '  Possum !  Why,  by  eleven-thirty  to-night  you  '11  be  as 
dead  as  any  possum." 

Bill  drew  another  hot  breath,  and  the  leaves  on  a  branch 
of  honeysuckle  peeping  in  at  the  open  window  were  seen  to 
wither  with  heat. 

"I  've  got  a  hoss  out  thar  in  the  stable,  Doc,  an'  he  's  jes 
as  good  as  any  hoss  you  ever  rid.  An'  I  tell  you  whut  I  '11 
do:  I  '11  bet  him  ag'in  yo'  hoss  that  I  '11  be  up  an'  around 
in  five  weeks." 

Doc  gave  him  a  pitying  look. 

"All  right;  I  '11  just  take  that  bet." 

Doc  told  it  about  the  neighborhood,  and  along  toward  mid- 
night, sitting  in  the  rear  room  of  a  drug-store,  he  took  out 
his  watch,  looked  at  it,  and  remarked : 

'Well,  by  this  time  Bill  Saunders  is  dead,  and  his  horse 
belongs  to  me." 

The  druggist  spoke. 


OLD  DOC  23 

"I  know  the  horse,  and  would  like  to  have  him.  What  11 
you  take  for  him,  Doc?" 

' '  Take  for  him !  That  horse  is  worth  a  hundred  and  fifty 
of  as  bright  gold  dollars  as  was  ever  dug  out  of  the  earth. 
Take  for  him!'*  says  he.    "Ain't  he  worth  it,  Nick?7' 

Nick,  a  yellowish  lout,  was  sitting  on  the  floor,  with  his 
back  against  the  wall.  For  the  most  part  his  requirement  of 
society  was  a  mouthful  of  tobacco  and  a  place  to  spit,  and  of 
the  latter  he  was  not  over-careful.  He  added  no  more  to 
civilization  than  worm-blight  adds  to  a  grape-vine,  but  with- 
out him  no  native  drama  could  have  been  written.  He  was 
as  native  to  the  neighborhood  as  a  wrinkle  is  to  a  ram's  horn. 
In  the  absence  of  all  other  wit,  he  knew  where  his  interest  lay. 
Therefore  he  haggled  not  to  respond  to  Doc 's  appeal.  Doc  had 
steadied  his  wife  down  from  the  high  shakes  of  ague,  had 
time  and  again  reminded  Nick  of  that  fact,  but  had  not  yet 
received  the  five  bushels  of  corn  and  the  four  pumpkins  of 
average  size,  the  physician's  legitimate  levy.  Here  was  a 
chance  on  Nick's  part  to  throw  off  at  least  two  bushels.  He 
arose,  and  dusted  the  seat  of  his  brown  jeans. 

' '  Doc, ' '  said  he, ' '  nobody  don 't  know  no  mo '  about  nobody 's 
hoss  nur  I  do.  An'  I  'm  savin'  it  without  the  fear  of  bein' 
kotch  in  a  lie  that  Bill's  hoss  is  wuth  two  hundred  an' 
seventy-fi'  dollars  of  as  good  money  as  ever  built  a  church." 

"You've  heard  him,"  was  Doc's  triumphant  turn  to  the 
druggist.  "But  let  me  tell  you.  About  a  half -hour  from 
now  I  've  got  to  catch  the  Lady  Blanche  for  Memphis,  on  my 
way  to  attend  the  medical  convention  in  Philadelphia.  I  've 
got  to  read  a  paper  on  snake-bite." 

Nick  broke  in  upon  him. 

"I  '11  bet  it  's  the  Guv'ment  that  is  a  axin'  you  to  do  it." 

"Well,  we  won't  discuss  that,"  was  Doc's  dismissal  of  the 
subject.  Then  he  turned  again  to  the  druggist.  "Got  to  get 
to  that  convention ;  and  as  I  '11  have  a  good  deal  of  entertain- 
ing to  do,  I  '11  need  a  hundred  extra.  So  you  just  give  me  a 
hundred  dollars  and  take  the  horse.  But  you  '11  have  to  be 
quick  about  it,  for  I  just  heard  the  Lady  Blanche  blowing 
around  the  bend." 


24  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

The  druggist  snatched  at  the  knob  of  his  safe,  swung  the 
door  open,  and  seized  a  hundred  dollars. 

One  afternoon,  five  weeks  later,  when  the  Lady  Blanche 
touched  the  shore  on  her  way  down,  Old  Doc  stepped  off. 
There  on  a  bale  of  cotton,  smoking  a  cob  pipe,  sat  Bill 
Saunders. 

"Wy,  hello,  Doc!" 

Doc  dropped  his  carpet-bag,  caught  up  the  tail  of  his  coat, 
and  with  it  blotted  the  sweat  on  his  brow. 

"Fine  day,"  said  Bill.  "  'Lowed  we  'd  have  a  little  rain, 
but  the  cloud  looked  like  it  had  business  summers  else.  An' 
by  the  way,  Doc,  up  whar  you  been  what  's  that  liquor  as 
distroys  the  constitution  wuth  by  the  gallon  ? ' ' 

Doc  reached  down  and  took  up  his  carpet-bag. 

"Bill  Saunders,  sir,  I  don't  want  anything  to  do  with  you. 
I  gave  you  my  confidence,  but  you  have  deceived  me.  And 
now,  sir,  your  lack  of  integrity " 

"Gives  me  a  hoss,"  Bill  interrupted.  "An'  say,  Doc,  I 
seed  the  druggist  man  jest  now,  an'  he  said  suthin'  about  a 
hundred  dollars  you  owed  him." 

Doc  walked  up  to  the  cotton-bale  and  placed  his  carpet-bag 
on  it,  close  beside  Bill. 

' '  Saunders, ' '  said  he,  ' '  in  this  thing  is  a  pistol  nearly  a  foot 
and  a  half  long.  Now  I  '11  give  you  my  horse  all  right,  even 
If  you  are  the  most  unreliable  man  1  ever  saw,  and  I  '11  pay  the 
druggist  his  hundred ;  but  if  you  go  around  the  neighborhood 
coasting  that  you  got  well  after  I  gave  you  up,  something  is 
going  to  flash,  and  it  won't  be  out  of  a  black  bottle,  either, 
but  right  out  of  Old  Miss  Betsy,  here  in  this  carpet-bag.  I 
don't  blame  you  for  getting  well,  as  a  sort  of  a  lark,  you 
understand;  but  when  you  make  a  serious  affair  of  it,  you 
hurt  my  professional  pride.  Old  Miss  Betsy  is  right  in  here. 
Do  you  gather  me?" 

"I  pick  up  yo'  threads  putty  well,  Doc,  I  think." 

"All  right ;  and  see  that  with  them  threads  you  sew  up  your 
mouth.  You  may  be  proof  against  the  pizen  of  the  swamp, 
but  you  ain't  proof  against  the  jolt  of  a  lead-mine.  That  '„« 
all." 


OLD  DOC  25 


SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  How    does    the    description    of    the    doctor's    home    emphasize 

character? 

2.  What  was  the  doctor's  ability? 

3.  How  does  the  writer  make  the  doctor  a  universal  character  as 

well  as  a  local  character? 

4.  How  does  the  writer  produce  humor? 

5.  How  does  the  writer  arouse  our  respect  for  the  doctor? 

6.  How  does  the  writer  arouse  our  sympathy? 

7.  What  character  trait  does  the  anecdote  reveal  ? 

8.  Why  does  the  writer  use  so  much  conversation  in  telling  the 

anecdote? 

9.  What  advantage  does  the  writer  gain  by  ending  the  sketch  so 

abruptly  ? 
10.  How  does  the  sketch  affect  the  reader? 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 


1.  The  Druggist 

11. 

The  Teacher 

2.  A  Borrowing  Neighbor 

12. 

The  Minister 

3.  The  Natural  Leader 

13. 

The  Policeman 

4.  The  Peanut  Man 

14. 

The  Expressman 

5.  The  Milkman 

15. 

The  Freshman 

6.  The  Iceman 

16. 

The  Senior 

7.  The  Conductor 

17. 

The  College  Student 

.8.  The  Clerk 

18. 

The  Elevator  Boy 

9.  The  Postman 

19. 

The  Farmer 

10.  The  Lawyer 

20. 

The  Grocer 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

Select  for  your  subject  a  person  in  whom  you  see  many  laughable 
traits,  but  whom  you  really  admire.  Sum  up  his  characteristics 
briefly  and  suggestively.  Make  your  humor  the  kind  that  will 
awaken  smiles  but  not  ridicule.  Use  exaggeration  in  moderation. 
Be  particularly  careful  to  select  words  that  will  convey  the  half- 
humorous,  half-serious  thought  that  you  wish  to  communicate.  End 
your  sketch  by  telling  an  anecdote  that  will  emphasize  one  or  more 
of  the  characteristics  that  you  have  mentioned.  Tell  the  anecdote 
in  a  "snappy"  way,  with  crisp  dialogue. 


CHRISTMAS  SHOPPING 

By  HELEN  DAVENPORT 

(1882 — ).  Mrs.  Helen  Davenport  Gibbons  is  a  graduate  of 
Bryn  Mawr.  Her  literary  work  appears  in  various  publications. 
Among  her  boolcs  are  The  Red  Rugs  of  Tarsus;  Les  Turcs  out 
Passe  La!  ;   A  Little  Gray  Home  in  France;  Paris  Vistas. 

A  good  essay  is  much  like  part  of  a  conversation, — the  part  spoken 
by  an  interesting  speaker.  It  is  breezy,  unconventional,  and  free  in  its 
use  of  familiar  terms.  How  well  all  this  is  brought  out  in  the  following 
extract  from  an  essay  on  Christmas. 

My  husband  and  I  would  not  miss  that  day-before-Christ. 
mas  last -minute  rush  for  anything.  And  even  if  I  risk  seem- 
ing to  talk  against  the  sane  and  humane  "shop-early-for- 
Christmas"  propaganda,  I  am  going  to  say  that  the  fun  and 
joy  of  Christmas  shopping  is  doing  it  on  the  twenty-fourth. 
Avoid  the  crowds  ?  I  don 't  want  to !  I  want  to  get  right  in 
the  middle  of  them.  I  want  to  shove  my  way  up  to  counters. 
I  want  to  buy  things  that  catch  my  eye  and  that  I  never 
thought  of  buying  and  would  n  't  buy  on  any  day  in  the  year 
but  December  twenty-fourth.  I  want  to  spend  more  money 
than  I  can  afford.  I  want  to  experience  that  panicky  feeling 
that  I  really  have  n  't  enough  things,  and  to  worry  over 
whether  my  purchases  can  be  divided  fairly  among  my 
quartet.  I  want  to  go  home  after  dark,  reveling  in  the  flare 
of  lamps  lighting  up  mistletoe,  holly  wreaths,  and  Christmas- 
trees  on  hawkers'  carts,  stopping  here  and  there  to  buy 
another  pound  of  candy  or  a  box  of  dates  or  a  foolish  bauble 
for  the  tree.  I  want  to  shove  bundle  after  bundle  into  the 
arms  of  my  protesting  husband  and  remind  him  that  Christ- 
mas comes  but  once  a  year  until  he  becomes  profane.  And, 
once  home,  on  what  other  winter  evening  would  you  find 
pleasure  in  dumping  the  whole  lot  on  your  bed,  adding  to  the 

26 


CHEISTMAS  SHOPPING  27 

jumble  of  toys  and  books  already  purchased  or  sent  by 
friends,  and,  all  other  thoughts  banished,  calmly  making  the 
children's  piles  despite  aching  back  and  legs,  impatient 
husband,  cross  servants,  and  a  dozen  dinner-guests  waiting 
in  the  drawing-room? 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  By   what   rhetorical   means   does   the  writer   communicate   hei 

emotion  ? 

2.  Show  how  the  writer  makes  detail  contribute  to  effect. 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 


1.  Christmas  Gifts 

11.  Making  Gifts  for  Friends 

2.  Giving  a  Party 

12.  Collecting 

3.  New  Year's  Day 

13.  Going  to  Games 

4.  Fourth  of  July 

14.  Buying  a  Hat 

5.  Memorial  Day 

15.  Crowds 

6.  Family  Reunions 

16.  Spending  Money 

7.  Answering  Letters 

17.  Hurrying 

8.  Holidays 

18.  Christmas  Trees 

9.  Vacation  Days 

19.  School  Celebrations 

10.  Callers 

20.  Just  Foolishness! 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

Write  on  a  subject  in  which  you  think  you  are,  perhaps,  excusably 
foolish.  Be  frankly  honest  and  genuinely  enthusiastic.  Write  in 
such  a  way  that  you  will  make  your  readers  sympathize  with  you 
in  your  "foolishness." 


SUNDAY  BELLS 

By  GERTRUDE  HENDERSON 

At  different  times  Miss  Henderson  has  lived  in  Indiana, 
California  and  New  York.  During  the  World  War  she  gave 
active  patriotic  service.  She  contributes  to  various  publi- 
cations. 

The  bells  of  Sunday  have  given  subjects  to  many  poets  and  to  many 
essayists.  Their  sound  is  full  of  suggestions  of  peace,  calm  and  the 
solemnity  of  worship. 

The  writer  of  the  following  essay  expresses,  as  she  says,  the  emotions 
of  many  people.  It  is  that  seizing  upon  what  is,  at  the  same  time, 
intensely  personal  and  yet  universal  that  gives  the  essay  its  power. 

Although  the  essay  is  written  in  a  gossipy  style  it  has  a  quiet  spirit 
entirely  in  harmony  with  its  subject. 

Abe  all  of  us  potentially  devotees,  I  wonder.  When  the 
bells  ring  and  I  look  up  to  the  aspiring  steeples  against  the 
sky  in  the  middle  of  a  Sunday  morning,  or  when  I  hear  them 
sounding  upon  the  quiet  of  the  Sunday  evening  dusk  or 
sending  their  clear-toned  invitation  out  through  the  secular 
bustle  of  the  mid-week  streets  and  in  at  doors  and  windows, 
summoning,  summoning,  there  is  that  in  me  that  hears  them 
and  starts  up  and  would  obey.  It  must  be  something  my 
grandmothers  left  there — my  long  line  of  untraceable  grand- 
mothers back,  back  through  the  hundreds  of  years.  I  wonder 
if  in  all  the  other  people  of  this  questioning  generation  whose 
thoughts  have  separated  them  from  the  firm,  sustaining  cer- 
tainties of  the  past  the  same  ghostly  allegiance  rises,  the  same 
vague  emotions  stir  and  quiver  at  the  evoking  of  the  Sunday 
bells.  I  should  think  it  altogether  likely,  for  I  have  never 
found  that  in  anything  very  real  in  me  I  am  at  all  different 
from  everybody  else  I  meet. 

The  Sunday  bells!  I  sit  in  the  morning  quiet  and  I  hear 
them  ringing  near.  They  are  not  so  golden-voiced,  those  first 
bells,  as  if  they  had  been  more  lately  made;  but  I  think  it 

28 


SUNDAY  BELLS  29 

may  be  they  go  the  deeper  into  my  feelings  for  that.    Some 
people  pass,  leisurely  at  first,  starting  early  and  strolling  at 
ease  through  the  peaceful  Sunday  morning  on  the  way  to 
church,  talking  together  as  they  go :  ladies,  middle-aged  and 
elderly,  the  black-dressed  Sunday  ladies  whose  serene  wonted- 
ness  suggests  that  they  have  passed  this  very  way  to  that 
very  goal  one  morning  in  seven  since  their  lives  began;  a 
father  with  his  boy  and  girl;  three   frolicsome  youngsters 
together  in  their  Sunday  clothes  loitering  through  the  sunny 
square  with  many   divagations,   and   chattering  happily   as 
they  go, — I  am  not  so  sure  their  blithe  steps  will  end  at  the 
church  door, — but  yet  they  may ;  a  young  girl,  fluttering  pink 
ruffles  and  hurrying.     I  think  she  is  going  to  sing  in  the 
choir  and  must  be  there  early.     She  has  the  manner  of  one 
who  fears  she  is  already  the  least  moment  late  for  flawless 
earliness.    Other  young  girls  with  their  young  men  are  walk- 
ing consciously  together  in  tempered  Sunday  sweethearting. 
And  so  on  and  on  till  the  bell  has  rung  a  last  summons,  and 
the  music  has  risen,  and  given  way  to  silence,  and  the  last 
belated  comers  have  hurried  by,  looking  at  accusing  watches, 
and  gone  within,  to  lose  their  consciousness  of  guilt  in  that 
cool    interior    whose    concern    is    with    eternity,    not    time. 
Along  all   the   other  streets   of   the  diverse   town   I   fancy 
them  streaming,  gathering  in  at  the  various  doors  on  one 
business  bent,   obeying   one    impulse   in   their   many   ways, 
one   common,   deep-planted   instinct  that   not  one   of   them 
can  philosophize  back  to  its  ultimate,  sure  source,  though  it 
masters  them  all — the  source  that  is  deeper  than  lifelong 
habit  or  childhood  teaching  or  the  tradition  of  the  race;  the 
source  out  of  which  all  these  came  in  their  dim  beginnings. 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  How  does  the  writer  show  that  her  subject  has  universal  appeal 7 

2.  Why  does  she  describe  people  on  their  way  to  church? 

3.  What  types  of  people  does  she  mention? 

4.  How  does  the  writer  give  the  essay  a  quiet  spirit? 

5.  Point  out  examples  of  repetition. 

6.  What  is  the  effect  of  the  last  sentence? 


30 


MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 


SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 


1.  Organ  Music 

11.  Church  Interiors 

2.  The  Violin 

12.  Store  Windows 

3.  An  Orchestra 

13.  Sympathy  with  Sorrow 

4.  A  Brass  Band 

14.  Weddings 

5.  Patriotic  Songs 

15.  Receptions 

6.  Singing  in  Chorus 

16.  The  Dance 

7.  A  Procession 

17.  Evening 

8.  Going  to  Church 

18.  A  Stormy  Night 

9.  Marching 

19.  Solitude 

10.  Team  Work 

20.  Whistling 

DIRECTIONS 

FOR  WRITING 

Show  that  your  subject  is  one  that  appeals  to  almost  every  person, 
and  that  it  appeals  to  you  in  particular.  Show  the  connection 
between  your  subject  and  various  types  of  people.  Give  your  essay 
a  serious  note,  especially  at  the  close. 


DISCOVERY 

By  GEORGES  DUHAMEL 

(1884 — ).  A  surgeon  in  the  service  of  the  French  army 
during  the  World  War.  He  turned  to  authorship  as  a  means 
of  distraction  from  the  horrors  of  war.  His  worTc  entitled 
Civilization  won  the  Goncourt  Prize  for  Fiction.  Among  his 
other  works  are  The  New  Book  of  Martyrs;  Combat;  Heart's 
Domain. 

An  open  eye  and  an  attentive  ear  do  much  to  make  life  enjoyable,—- 
that  is  the  thought  of  Georges  Duhamel's  essay  on  Discovery.  It  is 
evident  that  the  writer  deeply  appreciates  the  pleasure  of  exploration, 
even  though  the  exploration  be  among  the  humblest  and  least-noticed 
objects.  Perhaps  some  recent  experience  turned  his  attention  to  the 
thought,  "Discovery  is  delightful."  At  any  rate,  he  has  seized  upon 
the  idea, — as  though  it  were  one  of  the  things  that  he  has  discovered,— 
and  writes  his  meditation  on  it  with  the  easy  interest  with  which  he 
observes  the  gravel  in  a  bubbling  brook  or  a  lily  floating  on  the  surface 
of  the  water. 

Discovery  !  It  seems  as  if  this  word  were  one  of  a  cluster 
of  magic  keys — one  of  those  keys  that  make  all  doors  open 
before  our  feet.  We  know  that  to  possess  is  to  understand,  to 
comprehend.  That,  in  a  supreme  sense,  is  what  discovery 
means. 

To  understand  the  world  can  well  be  compared  to  the  peace- 
ful, enduring  wealth  of  the  great  landowner;  to  make  dis- 
coveries is,  in  addition  to  this,  to  come  into  sudden,  overflow- 
ing riches,  to  have  one  of  these  sudden  strokes  of  fortune 
which  double  a  man's  capital  by  a  windfall  that  seems  like 
an  inspiration. 

The  life  of  a  child  who  grows  up  unconstrainedly  is  a  chain 
of  discoveries,  an  enriching  of  each  moment,  a  succession  of 
dazzling  surprises. 

I  cannot  go  on  without  thinking  of  the  beautiful  letter  I 
received  to-day  about  my  little  boy.    It  said : 

Your  son  knows  how  to  find  extraordinary  riches,  inexhaustible 
treasures,  even  in  the  barrenest  fields,  and  when  I  set  him  on  the  grass, 
I  cannot  guess  the  things  he  is  going  to  bring  out  of  it.     He  has  an 

31 


32  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STOEIES 

admirable  appreciation  of  the  different  kinds  of  soil;  if  he  finds  sand, 
he  rolls  in  it,  buries  himself  in  it,  grabs  up  handfuls,  and  flings  them 
delightedly  over  his  hair.  Yesterday  he  discovered  a  mole-hole,  and 
you  cannot  imagine  all  the  pleasure  he  took  in  it.  He  also  knows  the 
joys  of  a  slope  which  one  can  descend  on  one 's  feet  or  head  over  heels, 
or  by  rolling,  and  which  is  also  splendid  for  somersaults.  Every  rise 
of  ground  interests  him,  and  I  wish  you  could  see  him  pushing  his  cart 
up  them.  There  is  a  little  ditch  where  on  the  edge  he  likes  to  lie  with 
his  feet  at  the  bottom  and  his  body  pressed  tight  against  the  slope.  He 
played  interminably  the  other  day  on  top  of  a  big  stone.  He  kept 
stroking  it;  he  had  truly  found  a  new  pleasure  there.  And  as  for  me, 
I  find  my  wealth  in  watching  him  discover  all  these  things. 

It  is  thus  a  child  of  fifteen  months  gives  man  lessons  in 
appreciation. 

Unfortunately,  most  systems  of  education  do  their  best  to 
substitute  hackneyed  phrases  for  the  sense  of  discovery.  A 
series  of  conventions  are  imposed  on  the  child;  he  ceases  to 
discover  and  experience  the  objects  in  the  world  in  pinning 
them  down  with  dry,  formal  labels  by  the  help  of  which 
he  can  recognize  them.  He  reduces  his  moral  life  little  by 
little  to  the  dull  routine  of  classifying  pins  and  pegs  and  in 
this  fashion  begins  the  journey  to  maturity. 

Discover!  You  must  discover  in  order  to  be  rich.  You 
must  not  be  satisfied  to  accept  the  night  good  humoredly,  to 
go  to  sleep  after  a  day  empty  of  all  discovery.  There  are  no 
small  victories,  no  negligible  discoveries;  if  you  bring  back 
from  your  day's  journey  the  memory  of  the  white  cloud  of 
pollen  the  ripe  plantain  lets  fall  in  May  at  the  stroke  of  your 
switch,  it  may  be  little,  but  your  day  is  not  lost.  If  you 
have  only  encountered  on  the  road  the  tiny  urn  of  jade  which 
the  moss  delightedly  balances  at  the  end  of  its  frail  stem,  it 
may  seem  little,  but  be  patient.  To-morrow  will  perhaps  be 
more  fruitful.  If  for  the  first  time  you  have  seen  a  swarm 
of  bees  go  by  in  search  of  a  hive,  or  heard  the  snapping  pods 
of  the  broom  scattering  its  seeds  in  the  heat,  you  have  nothing 
to  complain  of,  and  life  ought  to  seem  beautiful  to  you.  If, 
on  that  same  day,  you  have  also  enriched  your  collection  of 
humanity  with  a  beautiful  or  an  interesting  face,  confess  that 
you  will  go  to  sleep  upon  a  treasure. 

There  will  be  days  when  you  will  be  like  a  peaceful  sovereign 
seated  under  a  tree:  the  whole  world  will  come  to  render 


DISCOVERY  33 

homage  to  you  and  bring  you  tribute.  Those  will  be  your 
days  of  contemplation. 

There  will  be  days  when  you  will  have  to  take  your  staff 
and  wallet  and  go  and  seek  your  living  along  the  highways. 
On  these  days  you  must  be  contented  with  what  you  gain 
from  observing,  from  hunting.  Have  no  fear:  it  will  be 
beautiful. 

It  is  sweet  to  receive ;  it  is  thrilling  to  take.  You  must  by 
turns  charm  and  compel  the  universe.  When  you  have  gazed 
long  at  the  tawny  rock,  with  its  lichens,  its  velvety  mosses,  it 
is  most  amusing  to  lift  it  up.  Then  you  will  discover  its 
weight  and  the  little  nest  of  orange-bellied  salamanders  that 
live  there  in  the  cool. 

You  have  only  to  lie  among  the  hairy  mints  and  the  horse- 
tails to  admire  the  religious  dance  of  the  dragon-fly  going  to 
lay  its  eggs  in  the  brook,  or  to  hear  in  early  June  the  clamor- 
ous orgy  of  the  tree-toads,  drunk  with  love;  and  it  is  very 
pleasant,  too,  to  dip  one's  hands  in  the  water,  to  stir  the 
gravel  at  the  bottom,  whence  bubble  up  a  thousand  tiny,  agile 
existences,  or  to  pick  the  fleshy  stalk  of  the  water-lily  that 
lifts  its  tall  head  out  of  the  depths. 

There  are  people  who  have  passed  a  plant  a  thousand 
times  without  ever  thinking  of  picking  one  of  its  leaves  and 
rubbing  it  between  their  lingers.  Do  this  always,  and  you 
will  discover  hundreds  of  new  perfumes.  Each  of  these  per- 
fumes may  seem  quite  insignificant,  and  yet  when  you  have 
breathed  it  once,  you  wish  to  breathe  it  again;  you  think  of 
it  often,  and  something  nas  been  added  to  you. 

It  is  an  unending  game,  and  it  resembles  love,  this  posses- 
sion of  a  world  that  now  yields  itself,  now  conceals  itself.  It 
is  a  serious,  divine  game. 

Marcus  Aurelius,1  whose  philosophy  cannot  be  called  futile, 
does  not  hesitate,  amid  many  austere  counsels,  to  urge  his 
friends  to  the  contemplation  of  those  natural  spectacles  that 
are  always  rich  in  meaning  and  suggestion.    He  writes: 

1  Marcus  Aurelius  (121-180).  A  Koman  emperor  and  soldier,  author 
of  The  Meditations  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  a  book  of  such  wise  and  kindly 
philosophy  that  it  is  still  widely  popular. 


34  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

Everything  that  comes  forth  from  the  works  of  nature  has  its  grace 
and  beauty.  Tho  face  wi-inkles  in  middle  age,  the  very  ripe  olive  is 
almost  decomposed,  but  the  fruit  has,  for  all  that,  a  unique  beauty. 
The  bending  of  the  corn  toward  the  earth,  the  bushy  brows  of  the  lion, 
the  foam  that  drips  from  the  mouth  of  the  wild  boar  and  many  other 
things,  considered  by  themselves,  are  far  from  being  beautiful;  never- 
theless, since  they  are  accessory  to  the  works  of  nature,  they  embellish 
them  and  add  a  certain  charm.  Thus  a  man  who  has  a  sensitive  soul, 
and  who  is  capable  of  deep  reflection,  will  see  in  whatever  exists  in  the 
world  hardly  anything  that  is  not  pleasant  in  his  eyes,  since  it  is  related 
in  some  way  to  the  totality  of  things. 

This  philosopher  is  right,  as  the  poets  are  right.  As  our  days 
permit  us,  let  us  reflect  and  observe ;  let  us  never  cease  to  see 
in  each  fragment  of  the  great  whole  a  pure  source  of  happi- 
ness. Like  children  drawn  into  a  marvelous  dance,  let  us  not 
relax  our  hold  upon  the  hand  that  sustains  us  and  directs  us. 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  Point  out  examples  of  figurative  language. 

2.  Define  what  the  writer  means  by  "discovery." 

3.  What  is  the  value  of  discovery? 

4.  What  joy  does  a  child  possess  that  many  grown  people  do  not 

have? 

5.  What  criticism  of  modern  education  does  the  writer  make? 

6.  What  is  the  writer's  ideal  of  education? 

7.  What  sort  of  discoveries  does  the  writer  wish  people  to  make? 

8.  What  powers  does  the  writer  wish  people  to  cultivate? 

9.  What  sort  of  life  does  the  writer  admire? 

10.  What  is  the  advantage  of  quoting  from  Marcus  Aurelius? 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 

1.  Experimenting  11.  Study 

2.  Travel  12.  Collecting 

3.  Work  13.  Science 

4.  Play  14.  Astronomy 

5.  Recreation  15.  The  Weather 

6.  Exercise  16.  The  Stars 

7.  Walking  17.  Clouds 

8.  Contests  18.  Bees 

9.  Religion  19.  Cats 
10.  Sympathy  20.  Houses 


DISCOVERY  35 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

Think  of  something  you  do  that  gives  you  real  pleasure :  that 
is  your  subject.  Your  object  is  to  lead  other  people  to  share  in 
what  pleases  you. 

Intimate,  as  the  author  does,  what  various  thrills  may  be  expe- 
rienced. Write  enthusiastically,  and,  if  possible,  with  charm.  Do 
not  command  your  reader,  but  entice  him  into  the  joys  that  you 
possess.  Give  a  supporting  quotation  from  some  one  whose  words 
will  be  respected. 


THE  FURROWS  * 

By  GILBERT  K.  CHESTERTON 

(1874).  One  of  the  greatest  of  living  English  essayists.  He 
is  notable  for  originality  of  thought  and  expression.  His  habit 
of  turning  ideas,  as  it  were,  "upside-down,"  makes  his  work 
peculiarly  challenging.  He  has  written  under  many  types  of 
literature.  Among  his  books  are  Robert  Browning;  Charles 
Dickens;  Heretics;  Tremendous  Trifles;  Alarms  and  Discur- 
sions;  The  Victorian  Age  in  Literature. 

Many  essays  are  like  poems:  from  some  subject  that  lies  well  within 
common  experience  they  spring  to  a  height  of  emotion.  Such  is  the 
case  with  the  essay  that  follows.  Mr.  Chesterton  looked  upon  an 
ordinary  plowed  field.  At  once  his  imagination  took  fire  and  he  saw 
in  the  field  a  significance,  a  beauty,  that  the  everyday  observer  might 
not  note.  It  is  the  interpretation  of  what  Carlyle  calls  "the  ideal  in 
the  actual"  that  makes  Mr.  Chesterton's  essay  so  appealing. 

As  I  see  the  corn  grow  green  all  about  my  neighborhood, 
there  rushes  on  me  for  no  reason  in  particular  a  memory  of 
the  winter.  I  say  "rushes,"  for  that  is  the  very  word  for 
the  old  sweeping  lines  of  the  plowed  fields.  From  some  acci- 
dental turn  of  a  train-journey  or  a  walking  tour,  I  saw  sud- 
denly the  fierce  rush  of  the  furrows.  The  furrows  are  like 
arrows;  they  fly  along  an  arc  of  sky.  They  are  like  leaping 
animals ;  they  vault  an  inviolable  hill  and  roll  down  the  other 
side.  They  are  like  battering  battalions;  they  rush  over  a 
hill  with  flying  squadrons  and  carry  it  with  a  cavalry  charge. 
They  have  all  the  air  of  Arabs  sweeping  a  desert,  of  rockets 
sweeping  the  sky,  of  torrents  sweeping  a  watercourse.  Noth- 
ing ever  seemed  so  living  as  those  brown  lines  as  they  shot 
sheer  from  the  height  of  a  ridge  down  to  their  still  whirl  of 
the  valley.  They  were  swifter  than  arrows,  fiercer  than 
Arabs,  more  riotous  and  rejoicing  than  rockets.  And  yet  they 
were  only  thin  straight  lines  drawn  with  difficulty,  like  a 

*  From  ' '  Alarms  and  Discursions, ' '  by  Gilbert  K.  Chesterton.  Copy- 
right, 1911,  by  Dodd,  Mead  and  Company. 

36 


THE  FTJRKOWS  37 

diagram,  by  painful  and  patient  men.  The  men  that  plowed 
tried  to  plow  straight;  they  had  no  notion  of  giving  great 
sweeps  and  swirls  to  the  eye.  Those  cataracts  of  cloven 
earth;  they  were  done  by  the  grace  of  God.  I  had  always 
rejoiced  in  them;  but  I  had  never  found  any  reason  for  my 
joy.  There  are  some  very  clever  people  who  cannot  enjoy 
the  joy  unless  they  understand  it.  There  are  other  and  even 
cleverer  people  who  say  that  they  lose  the  joy  the  moment 
they  do  understand  it.  Thank  God  I  was  never  clever,  and 
could  always  enjoy  things  when  I  understood  them  and  when 
I  didn't.  I  can  enjoy  the  orthodox  Tory,  though  I  could 
never  understand  him.  I  can  also  enjoy  the  orthodox  Liberal, 
though  I  understand  him  only  too  well. 

•  •••••• 

But  the  splendor  of  furrowed  fields  is  this:  that  like  all 
brave  things  they  are  made  straight,  and  therefore  they  bend. 
In  everything  that  bows  gracefully  there  must  be  an  effort 
at  stiffness.  Bows  are  beautiful  when  they  bend  only  be- 
cause they  try  to  remain  rigid;  and  sword-blades  can  curl 
like  silver  ribbons  only  because  they  are  certain  to  spring 
straight  again.  But  the  same  is  true  of  every  tough  curve 
of  the  tree-trunk,  of  every  strong-backed  bend  of  the  bough ; 
there  is  hardly  any  such  thing  in  Nature  as  a  mere  droop 
of  weakness.  Rigidity  yielding  a  little,  like  justice  swayed 
by  mercy,  is  the  whole  beauty  of  the  earth.  The  cosmos  is  a 
diagram  just  bent  beautifully  out  of  shape.  Everything  tries 
to  be  straight ;  and  everything  just  fortunately  fails. 

The  foil  may  curve  in  the  lunge;  but  there  is  nothing 
beautiful  about  beginning  the  battle  with  a  crooked  foil.  So 
the  strict  aim,  the  strong  doctrine,  may  give  a  little  in  the 
actual  fight  with  facts;  but  that  is  no  reason  for  beginning 
with  a  weak  doctrine  or  a  twisted  aim.  Do  not  be  an  op- 
portunist; try  to  be  theoretic  at  all  the  opportunities;  fate 
can  be  trusted  to  do  all  the  opportunist  part  of  it.  Do  not 
try  to  bend,  any  more  than  the  trees  try  to  bend.  Try  to 
grow  straight,  and  life  will  bend  you. 

Alas!  I  am  giving  the  moral  before  the  fable;  and  yet  I 
hardly  think  that  otherwise  you  could  see  all  that  I  mean  in 

1       24 


38  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

that  enormous  vision  of  the  plowed  hills.  These  great  fur- 
rowed slopes  are  the  oldest  architecture  of  man;  the  oldest 
astronomy  was  his  guide,  the  oldest  botany  his  object.  And 
for  geometry,  the  mere  word  proves  my  case. 

But  when  I  looked  at  those  torrents  of  plowed  parallels, 
that  great  rush  of  rigid  lines,  I  seemed  to  see  the  whole  huge 
achievement  of  democracy.  Here  was  more  equality;  but 
equality  seen  in  bulk  is  more  superb  than  any  supremacy. 
Equality  free  and  flying,  equality  rushing  over  hill  and  dale, 
equality  charging  the  world — that  was  the  meaning  of  those 
military  furrows,  military  in  their  identity,  military  in  their 
energy.  They  sculptured  hill  and  dale  with  strong  curves 
merely  because  they  did  not  mean  to  curve  at  all.  They  made 
the  strong  lines  of  landscape  with  their  stiffly  driven  swords 
of  the  soil.  It  is  not  only  nonsense,  but  blasphemy,  to  say 
that  man  has  spoilt  the  country.  Man  has  created  the  coun- 
try; it  was  his  business,  as  the  image  of  God.  No  hill,  cov- 
ered with  common  scrub  or  patches  of  purple  heath,  could 
have  been  so  sublimely  hilly  as  that  ridge  up  to  which  the 
ranked  furrows  rose  like  aspiring  angels.  No  valley,  confused 
with  needless  cottages  and  towns,  can  have  been  so  utterly 
valleyish  as  that  abyss  into  which  the  down-rushing  furrows 
raged  like  demons  into  the  swirling  pit. 

It  is  the  hard  lines  of  discipline  and  equality  that  mark  out 
a  landscape  and  give  it  all  its  mold  and  meaning.  It  is  just 
because  the  lines  of  the  furrow  are  ugly  and  even  that  the 
landscape  is  living  and  superb.  As  I  think  I  have  remarked 
before,  the  Republic  is  founded  on  the  plow. 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  Explain  the  figures  of  speech  that  occur  in  the  essay. 

2.  Why  did  Mr.  Chesterton  use  so  many  figures  of  speech? 

3.  How  can  you  account  for  his  poetic  language .' 

4.  What  leads  him  to  think  the  furrows  beautiful? 

5.  What  meaning  does  the  writer  find  in  the  plowed  field? 

6.  Explain  in  full  the  last  paragraph  of  the  essay. 

7.  In  what  respect  is  the  Republic,  "founded  on  the  plow"? 


THE  FURROWS  39 

8.  What  does  the  essay   show  concerning  Mr.   Chesterton's  per- 

sonality ? 

9.  In  what  respects  is  his  style  original? 
10.  By  what  means  does  he  gain  emphasis? 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 


1.  A  River 

11.  A  House 

2.  A  Road 

12.  A  Book 

3.  A  Cloud 

13.  A   Bridge 

4.  The  Sunshine 

14.  A  Railroad  Track 

5.  A  Stone  Wall 

15.  An  Airplane 

6.  A  Horse 

16.  A  Flag 

7.  A  Tree 

17.  A  Pen 

8.  A  Garden 

18.  A  Valley 

9.  A  Mountain 

19.  A  High  Building 

10.  The  Wind 

20.  A  Telescope 

DIRECTIONS 

FOR  WRITING 

Take  for  your  subject  anything  that  is  extremely  familiar.  Show 
your  reader  both  the  physical  beauty  that  any  one  may  observe  and 
also  the  inner  beauty  that  the  average  person  is  not  so  likely  to 
note.  Write  in  such  a  way  that  you  will  show  your  real  emotions 
towards  your  subject.  Make  your  essay  rise  steadily  in  power 
and  let  your  last  paragraph  present  the  thought  that  you  wish  to 
leave  with  your  reader. 


MEDITATION  AND  IMAGINATION  * 

By  HAMILTON  WRIGHT  MABIE 

(1846-1916).  An  American  essayist  and  journalist,  for  many 
years  editor  of  The  Outlook.  His  literary  work  was  so  impor- 
tant that  he  was  made  a  member  of  the  American  Academy  of 
Arts  and  Letters.  Among  his  books  are  Nature  in  New 
England;  My  Study  Fire;  Short  Studies  in  Literature;  Essays 
on  Books  and  Culture;  The  Life  of  the  Spirit;  Japan  To-day 
and  To-morrow. 

Essayists  are  natural  lovers  of  books.  In  the  records  of  human 
experience  they  find  subjects  that  stimulate  the  imagination,  arouse  the 
sentiments,  and  lead  to  meditation. 

Almost  every  essayist  draws  largely,  for  the  better  illustration  of 
his  thought,  from  the  field  of  literature.  To  him  the  characters  of 
history  or  of  fiction  are  almost  as  real  as  those  of  to-day.  In  the  realm 
of  books  the  essayist  sees  an  expansion  of  the  world  in  which  he  lives. 
In  addition,  he  makes  the  acquaintance  of  others  who  have  meditated 
on  the  many  interests  of  life.  He  looks  upon  authors,  living  or  dead, 
as  upon  a  company  of  friends.  In  their  companionship  he  gains 
unceasing  delight. 

Mr.  Hamilton  Wright  Mabie  sets  forward  very  pleasingly  the  way 
in  which  a  reader  may  gain  the  most  from  books. 

There  is  a  book  in  the  British  Museum  which  would  have, 
for  many  people,  a  greater  value  than  any  other  single  volume 
in  the  world ;  it  is  a  copy  of  Florio's  translation  of  Montaigne,1 
and  it  bears  Shakespeare's  autograph  on  a  flyleaf.  There 
are  other  books  which  must  have  had  the  same  ownership; 

*  From  "Books  and  Culture,"  by  Hamilton  Wright  Mabie.  Copy- 
right by  Dodd,  Mead  and  Co. 

1  Florio's  Montaigne.  John  Florio  (1553-1625).  A  teacher  of  French 
and  Italian  in  Oxford  University,  who  in  1603  translated  the  essays  of 
Montaigne,  one  copy  of  which,  autographed  by  Shakespeare,  is  in  the 
British  Museum  in  London.  From  him  Shakespeare  perhaps  learned 
Fronch  and  Italian.  In  all  probability  many  of  the  passages  of  wit 
and  wisdom  in  plays  like  Hamlet  and  The  Tempest,  as  well  as  in  other 
plays,  were  suggested  by  Florio's  translation  of  Montaigne. 

40 


MEDITATION  AND  IMAGINATION  41 

among  them  were  Holinshed  's  ' '  Chronicles, ' ' 2  and  North 's 
translation  of  Plutarch.3  Shakespeare  would  have  laid  pos- 
terity under  still  greater  obligations,  if  that  were  possible,  if 
in  some  autobiographic  mood  he  had  told  us  how  he  read 
these  books;  for  never,  surely,  were  books  read  with  greater 
insight  and  with  more  complete  absorption.  Indeed,  the 
fruits  of  this  reading  were  so  rich  and  ripe  that  the  books 
from  which  their  juices  came  seem  but  dry  husks  and  shells 
in  comparison.  The  reader  drained  the  writer  dry  of  every 
particle  of  suggestiveness,  and  then  recreated  the  material 
in  new  and  imperishable  forms.  The  process  of  reproduction 
was  individual,  and  is  not  to  be  shared  by  others ;  it  was  the 
expression  of  that  rare  and  inexplicable  personal  energy 
which  we  call  genius;  but  the  process  of  absorption  may  be 
shared  by  all  who  care  to  submit  to  the  discipline  which  it 
involves.  It  is  clear  that  Shakespeare  read  in  such  a  way  as 
to  possess  what  he  read;  he  not  only  remembered  it,  but  he 
incorporated  it  into  himself.  No  other  kind  of  reading  could 
have  brought  the  East  out  of  its  grave,  with  its  rich  and 
languorous  atmosphere  steeping  the  senses  in  the  charm  of 
Cleopatra,  or  recalled  the  massive  and  powerfully  organized 
life  of  Rome  about  the  person  of  the  great  Cassar.  Shake- 
speare read  his  books  with  such  insight  and  imagination 
that  they  became  part  of  himself;  and  so  far  as  this  proc- 
ess is  concerned,  the  reader  of  to-day  can  follow  in  his 
steps. 

The  majority  of  people  have  not  learned  this  secret;  they 
read  for  information  or  for  refreshment ;  they  do  not  read  for 
enrichment.  Feeding  one's  nature  at  all  the  sources  of  life, 
browsing  at  will  on  all  the  uplands  of  knowledge  and 
thought,  do  not  bear  the  fruit  of  acquirement  only;  they  put 

a Holinshed 's  Chronicles.  Ealph  Holinshed  (?-1580?).  Author  of 
Chronicles  of  Englande,  Scotlande,  and  Irelande,  a  book  published  in 
1577,  from  which  Shakespeare  drew  material  for  many  of  his  historical 
plays. 

'North's  Plutarch.  Sir  Thomas  North  (1535?-1601?),  translated 
from  the  French  Plutarch's  Lives,  originally  written  in  Greek  in  the 
first  century  A.D.  From  these  remarkable  biographies  Shakespeare 
learned  the  stories  that  he  embodied  in  such  plays  as  Antony  and  Cleo- 
patra and  Coriolanus. 


42  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

us  into  personal  possession  of  the  vitality,  the  truth,  and  the 
beauty  about  us.  A  man  may  know  the  plays  of  Shakespeare 
accurately  as  regards  their  order,  form,  construction,  and 
language,  and  yet  remain  almost  without  knowledge  of  what 
Shakespeare  was  at  heart,  and  of  his  significance  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  human  soul.  It  is  this  deeper  knowledge,  however, 
which  is  essential  for  culture;  for  culture  is  such  an  appro- 
priation of  knowledge  that  it  becomes  a  part  of  ourselves.  It 
is  no  longer  something  added  by  the  memory ;  it  is  something 
possessed  by  the  soul.  A  pedant  is  formed  by  his  memory ; 
a  man  of  culture  is  formed  by  the  habit  of  meditation,  and 
by  the  constant  use  of  the  imagination.  An  alert  and  curious 
man  goes  through  the  world  taking  note  of  all  that  passes 
under  his  eyes,  and  collects  a  great  mass  of  information,  which 
is  in  no  sense  incorporated  into  his  own  mind,  but  remains 
a  definite  territory  outside  his  own  nature,  which  he  has 
annexed.  A  man  of  receptive  mind  and  heart,  on  the  other 
hand,  meditating  on  what  he  sees,  and  getting  at  its  meaning 
by  the  divining-rod  of  the  imagination,  discovers  the  law 
behind  the  phenomena,  the  truth  behind  the  fact,  the  vital 
force  which  flows  through  all  things,  and  gives  them  their 
significance.  The  first  man  gains  information ;  the  second 
gains  culture.  The  pedant  pours  out  an  endless  succession 
of  facts  with  a  monotonous  uniformity  of  emphasis,  and 
exhausts  while  he  instructs;  the  man  of  culture  gives  us  a 
few  facts,  luminous  in  their  relation  to  one  another,  and 
freshens  and  stimulates  by  bringing  us  into  contact  with  ideas 
and  with  life. 

To  get  at  the  heart  of  books  we  must  live  with  and  in  them ; 
we  must  make  them  our  constant  companions ;  we  must  turn 
them  over  and  over  in  thought,  slowly  penetrating  their  inner- 
most meaning ;  and  when  we  possess  their  thought  we  must 
work  it  into  our  own  thought.  The  reading  of  a  real  book 
ought  to  be  an  event  in  one's  history;  it  ought  to  enlarge  the 
vision,  deepen  the  base  of  conviction,  and  add  to  the  reader 
whatever  knowledge,  insight,  beauty,  and  power  it  contains. 
It  is  possible  to  spend  years  of  study  on  what  may  be  called 
the  externals  of  the  "Divine  Comedy,"  and  remain  unaffected 


MEDITATION  AND  IMAGINATION  43 

in  nature  by  this  contact  with  one  of  the  masterpieces  of  the 
spirit  of  man  as  well  as  of  the  art  of  literature.  It  is  also 
possible  to  so  absorb  Dante's4  thought  and  so  saturate  one's 
self  with  the  life  of  the  poem  as  to  add  to  one's  individual 
capital  of  thought  and  experience  all  that  the  poet  discerned 
in  that  deep  heart  of  his  and  wrought  out  of  that  intense  and 
tragic  experience.  But  this  permanent  and  personal  pos- 
session can  be  acquired  by  those  alone  who  brood  over  the 
poem  and  recreate  it  within  themselves  by  the  play  of  the 
imagination  upon  it.  A  visitor  was  shown  into  Mr.  Lowell's5 
room  one  evening  not  many  years  ago,  and  found  him  bar- 
ricaded behind  rows  of  open  books;  they  covered  the  table 
and  were  spread  out  on  the  floor  in  an  irregular  but  magic 
circle.  "Still  studying  Dante?"  said  the  intruder  into  the 
workshop  of  as  true  a  man  of  culture  as  we  have  known  on 
this  continent.  "Yes,"  was  the  prompt  reply;  "always 
studying  Dante." 

A  man's  intellectual  character  is  determined  by  what  he 
habitually  thinks  about.  The  mind  cannot  always  be  con- 
sciously directed  to  definite  ends;  it  has  hours  of  relaxation. 
There  are  many  hours  in  the  life  of  the  most  strenuous 
and  arduous  man  when  the  mind  goes  its  own  way  and 
thinks  its  own  thoughts.  These  times  of  relaxation,  when 
the  mind  follows  its  own  bent,  are  perhaps  the  most  fruit- 
ful and  significant  periods  in  a  rich  and  noble  intellectual 
life.  The  real  nature,  the  deeper  instincts  of  the  man,  come 
out  in  these  moments,  as  essential  refinement  and  genuine 
breeding  are  revealed  when  the  man  is  off  guard  and  acts  and 
speaks  instinctively.  It  is  possible  to  be  mentally  active 
and  intellectually  poor  and  sterile ;  to  drive  the  mind  along 
certain  courses  of  work,  but  to  have  no  deep  life  of  thought 
behind  these  calculated  activities.  The  life  of  the  mind 
is  rich  and  fruitful  only  when  thought,  released  from  spe- 
cific tasks,  flies  at  once  to  great  themes  as  its  natural  objects 

*  Dante  Alighieri  (1265-1321),  an  Italian  poet,  author  of  The  Divine 
Comedy,  a  work  of  such  surpassing  merit  that  its  author  is  regarded  as 
one  of  the  five  greatest  writers  of  all  time. 

8  James  Eussell  Lowell  (1819-1891).  An  American  poet  and  essayist, 
noted  for  his  love  of  books. 


44  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STOEIES 

of  interest  and  love,  its  natural  sources  of  refreshment  and 
strength.  Under  all  our  definite  activities  there  runs  a 
stream  of  meditation;  and  the  character  of  that  meditation 
determines  our  wealth  or  our  poverty,  our  productiveness 
or  our  sterility. 

This  instinctive  action  of  the  mind,  although  largely  un- 
conscious, is  by  no  means  irresponsible;  it  may  be  directed 
and  controlled;  it  may  be  turned,  by  such  control,  into  a 
Pactolian  stream,6  enriching  us  while  we  rest  and  ennobling 
us  while  we  play.  For  the  mind  may  be  trained  to  meditate 
on  great  themes  instead  of  giving  itself  up  to  idle  reverie; 
when  it  is  released  from  work  it  may  concern  itself  with  the 
highest  things  as  readily  as  with  those  which  are  insignificant 
and  paltry.  Whoever  can  command  his  meditations  in  the 
streets,  along  the  country  roads,  on  the  train,  in  the  hours  of 
relaxation,  can  enrich  himself  for  all  time  without  effort  or 
fatigue;  for  it  is  as  easy  and  restful  to  think  about  great 
things  as  about  small  ones.  A  certain  lover  of  books  made 
this  discovery  years  ago,  and  has  turned  it  to  account  with 
great  profit  to  himself.  He  thought  he  discovered  in  the  faces 
of  certain  great  writers  a  meditative  quality  full  of  repose 
and  suggestive  of  a  constant  companionship  with  the  highest 
themes.  It  seemed  to  him  that  these  thinkers,  who  had  done 
so  much  to  liberate  his  own  thought,  must  have  dwelt  habitu- 
ally with  noble  ideas;  that  in  every  leisure  hour  they  must 
have  turned  instinctively  to  those  deep  things  which  concern 
most  closely  the  life  of  men.  The  vast  majority  of  men  are 
so  absorbed  in  dealing  with  material  that  they  appear  to  be 
untouched  by  the  general  questions  of  life ;  but  these  general 
questions  are  the  habitual  concern  of  the  men  who  think.  In 
such  men  the  mind,  released  from  specific  tasks,  turns  at  once 
and  by  preference  to  these  great  themes,  and  by  quiet  medi- 
tation feeds  and  enriches  the  very  soul  of  the  thinker.  And 
the  quality  of  this  meditation  determines  whether  the  nature 
shall  be  productive  or  sterile ;  whether  a  man  shall  be  merely 
a  logician,  or  a  creative  force  in  the  world.  Following  this 
hint,  this  lover  of  books  persistently  trained  himself,  in  hia 

•  Pactolian  Stream,  a  river  in  Asia  Minor  in  which  gold  was  found. 


MEDITATION  AND  IMAGINATION  45 

leisure  hours,  to  think  over  the  books  he  was  reading;  to 
meditate  on  particular  passages,  and,  in  the  case  of  dramas 
and  novels,  to  look  at  characters  from  different  sides.  It  was 
not  easy  at  first,  and  it  was  distinctively  work ;  but  it  became 
instinctive  at  last,  and  consequently  it  became  play.  The 
stream  of  thought,  once  set  in  a  given  direction,  flows  now  of 
its  own  gravitation;  and  reverie,  instead  of  being  idle  and 
meaningless,  has  become  rich  and  fruitful.  If  one  subjects 
' '  The  Tempest, ' ' 7  for  instance,  to  this  process,  he  soon  learns 
it  by  heart;  first  he  feels  its  beauty;  then  he  gets  whatever 
definite  information  there  is  in  it ;  as  he  reflects,  its  construc- 
tive unity  grows  clear  to  him,  and  he  sees  its  quality  as  a  piece 
of  art;  and  finally  its  rich  and  noble  disclosure  of  the  poet's 
conception  of  life  grows  upon  him  until  the  play  belongs  to 
him  almost  as  much  as  it  belonged  to  Shakespeare.  This 
process  of  meditation  habitually  brought  to  bear  on  one's 
reading  lays  bare  the  very  heart  of  the  book  in  hand,  and 
puts  one  in  complete  possession  of  it. 

This  process  of  meditation,  if  it  is  to  bear  its  richest  fruit, 
must  be  accompanied  by  a  constant  play  of  the  imagination, 
than  which  there  is  no  faculty  more  readily  cultivated  or 
more  constantly  neglected.  Some  readers  see  only  a  flat  sur- 
face as  they  read;  others  find  the  book  a  door  into  a  real 
world,  and  forget  that  they  are  dealing  with  a  book.  The 
real  readers  get  beyond  the  book,  into  the  life  which  it  de- 
scribes. They  see  the  island  in  "The  Tempest";  they  hear 
the  tumult  of  the  storm ;  they  mingle  with  the  little  company 
who,  on  that  magical  stage,  reflect  all  the  passions  of  men 
and  are  brought  under  the  spell  of  the  highest  powers  of 
man's  spirit.  It  is  a  significant  fact  that  in  the  lives  of  men 
of  genius  the  reading  of  two  or  three  books  has  often  provoked 
an  immediate  and  striking  expansion  of  thought  and  power. 
Samuel  Johnson, 8  a  clumsy  boy  in  his  father 's  bookshop, 
searching  for  apples,  came  upon  Petrarch,9  and  was  destined 

T  The  Tempest,  one  of  Shakespeare 's  most  poetic  comedies,  written 
about  1611. 

8  Samuel  Johnson  (1709-1784),  the  great  literary  leader  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  noted  for  his  work  as  an  essayist. 

'Francesco  Petrarch  (1304-1374),  one  of  the  most  noted  Italian  poets. 


46  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

henceforth  to  be  a  man  of  letters.  John  Keats,10  apprenticed 
to  an  apothecary,  read  Spenser's  "Epithalamium""  one 
golden  afternoon  in  company  with  his  friend,  Cowden 
Clarke,12  and  from  that  hour  was  a  poet  by  the  grace  of  God. 
In  both  cases  the  readers  read  with  the  imagination,  or  their 
own  natures  would  not  have  kindled  with  so  sudden  a  flash. 
The  torch  is  passed  on  to  those  only  whose  hands  are  out- 
stretched to  receive  it.  To  read  with  the  imagination,  one 
must  take  time  to  let  the  figures  reform  in  his  own  mind;  he 
must  see  them  with  great  distinctness  and  realize  them  with 
great  definiteness.  Benjamin  Franklin 13  tells  us,  in  that 
"Autobiography"  which  was  one  of  our  earliest  and  remains 
one  of  our  most  genuine  pieces  of  writing,  that  when  he  dis- 
covered his  need  of  a  larger  vocabulary  he  took  some  of  the 
tales  which  he  found  in  an  odd  volume  of  the  "Spectator"  14 
and  turned  them  into  verse;  "and  after  a  time,  when  I  had 
pretty  well  forgotten  the  prose,  turned  them  back  again.  I 
also  sometimes  jumbled  my  collections  of  hints  into  confusion, 
and  after  some  weeks  endeavoured  to  reduce  them  into  the 
best  order  before  I  began  to  form  the  full  sentences  and  com- 
pleat  the  paper."  Such  a  patient  recasting  of  material  for 
the  ends  of  verbal  exactness  and  accuracy  suggests  ways  in 
which  the  imagination  may  deal  with  characters  and  scenes  in 
order  to  stimulate  and  foster  its  own  activity.  It  is  well  to 
recall  at  frequent  intervals  the  story  we  read  in  some  drama- 
tist, poet,  or  novelist,  in  order  that  the  imagination  may  set 
it  before  us  again  in  all  its  rich  vitality.  It  is  well  also  as 
we  read  to  insist  on  seeing  the  picture  as  well  as  the  words. 

10  John  Keats  (1795-1821),  an  English  poet  especially  noted  for  the 
rich  beauty  of  his  style. 

"Edmund  Spenser  (1552?-1599),  the  celebrated  author  of  The  Faerie 
Queen  and  of  other  poems  noted  for  rich  imaginative  power.  His 
Epithalamhim,  perhaps  his  best  poem,  was  written  in  honor  of  his  mar- 
riage to  Elizabeth  Boyle. 

"Cowden  Clarke  (1787-1877),  an  English  publisher  and  Shakespearian 
scholar,  a  friend  of  John  Keats. 

"Benjamin  Franklin  (1706-1790),  a  great  American  philosopher  and 
patriot  whose  life  story  is  told  in  his  Autobiography. 

"  The  Spectator,  a  daily  paper  published  by  Joseph  Addison,  Sir 
Richard  Steele  and  others  from  March  1,  1711,  to  December  6,  171sS. 


MEDITATION  AND  IMAGINATION  47 

It  is  as  easy  to  see  the  bloodless  duke  before  the  portrait  of 
"My  Last  Duchess,"  iu  Browning's15  little  masterpiece,  to 
take  in  all  the  accessories  and  carry  away  with  us  a  vivid  and 
lasting  impression,  as  it  is  to  follow  with  the  eye  the  succes- 
sion of  words.  In  this  way  we  possess  the  poem,  and  make  it 
serve  the  ends  of  culture. 


SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  What  did  Shakespeare  gain  from  the  reading  of  books? 

2.  What  wrong  ways  of  reading  does  Mr.  Mabie  point  out? 

3.  What  is  the  difference  between  a  pedant  and  a  man  of  culture? 

4.  What  does  Mr.  Mabie  mean  by  the  expression,  "To  get  at  the 

heart  of  books"? 

5.  What  should  a  book  do  for  a  reader? 

6.  Why  does  Mr.  Mabie  tell  the  anecdote  of  Mr.  Lowell? 

7.  Explain    the    difference    between    helpful    meditation    and    idle 

reverie. 

8.  What  characteristics  may  be  gained  from  great  writers? 

9.  What  does  Mr.  Mabie  mean  by  saying  that  one  should  read 

imaginatively? 
10.  What  does  the  essay  show  concerning  the  personality  of  Mr. 
Mabie? 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 

1.  Study  and  "Cramming"  '•  10.  Respect  and  Insolence 

2.  Fair  Play  and  Trickery  11.  Leisure  and  Hurry 

3.  Selfishness  and  Unselfishness     12.  Thrift  and  Waste 

4.  School    Spirit   and   Lack   of     13.  Courage  and  Cowardice 

School  Spirit  14.  Persistence 

5.  Reasons  for  Success  and  for     15.  Ambition 

Failure  16.  Thoughtfulness 

6.  The  Gentleman  and  the  Boor  17.  Loyalty 

7.  Kindness  and  Brutality  18.  Will  Power 

8.  Care  and  Carelessness  19.  Honor 

9.  Promptness  and  Tardiness  20.  The  Kindly  Life 

"Kobert  Browning  (1812-1889).  One  of  the  greatest  of  English 
poets.  My  Last  Duchess  is  one  of  his  many  powerful  dramatic  mono- 
logues. 


48  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

You  have  noticed  that  Mr.  Mabie  began  his  essay  by  telling  about 
Shakespeare's  reading.  He  then  set  forward  the  ideal  that  Shake- 
speare's method  of  reading  represents.  You  must  follow  the  same 
plan.  Begin  your  essay  by  telling  of  some  one  person  who  repre- 
sents in  some  way  the  ideal  of  which  you  write.  That  very  specific 
example  will  lead  your  reader  into  the  thought  that  you  wish  to 
emphasize, — that  there  is,  in  connection  with  your  subject,  an  idea] 
method  of  proceeding,  and  a  method  that  is  less  ideal.  After  you 
have  made  this  specific  introduction,  set  forward  your  own  ideas. 
Do  as  Mr.  Mabie  did,  and  give  many  specific  examples  that  will 
make  your  thought  clear  and  emphatic. 


WHO  OWNS  THE  MOUNTAINS?* 

By  HENEY  VAN  DYKE 

(1852 — ).  One  of  the  most  popular  American  essayists. 
After  many  years  of  service  as  a  Presbyterian  minister  he  be- 
came Professor  of  English  Literature  in  Princeton  University. 
During  the  early  part  of  the  World  War  he  was  U.  S.  Minister 
to  the  Netherlands  and  Luxembourg,  where  his  services  were 
notably  patriotic.  His  poems,  essays  and  short  stories  have 
won  wide  and  well-deserved  popularity.  Among  them  are  The 
Poetry  of  Tennyson;  The  Other  Wise  Man;  The  First  Christ- 
mas Tree;  Fisherman's  Luck;  The  Blue  Flower;  Out  of  Doors 
in  the  Holy  Land;  The  Unknown  Quantity;  Collected  Poems. 
Dr.  Van  Dyke  was  at  one  time  President  of  the  National  In- 
stitute of  Arts  and  Letters. 

Something  of  the  spirit  of  sunset  and  of  the  quietness  of  the  woods 
and  mountains  has  crept  into  Dr.  Van  Dyke's  essay.  We  sit  with  him 
and  look  off  at  the  ridges  and  hollows  of  forest.  We  find  our  own 
thoughts  about  the  beauty  of  earth  expressed  as  we  can  not  express 
them.  We  are  lifted  in  meditation  as  Dr.  Van  Dyke  was  lifted  when 
he  looked  off  at  the  great  hills. 

Power  to  reveal  inner  meanings  in  the  world  of  outdoors  and  of  man, 
and  to  ennoble  the  soul,  is  one  of  the  reasons  why  the  essay  has  such 
a  high  place  in  the  affections  of   those  who   love  literature. 

Who  Owns  the  Mountains?  shows  both  the  felicity  of  Dr.  Van  Dyke's 
style  and  the  nobility  of  his  thought. 

It  was  the  little  lad  that  asked  the  question ;  and  the  answer 
also,  as  you  will  see,  was  mainly  his. 

We  had  been  keeping  Sunday  afternoon  together  in  our 
favorite  fashion,  following  out  that  pleasant  text  which  tells 
us  to  " behold  the  fowls  of  the  air."  There  is  no  injunction 
of  Holy  Writ  less  burdensome  in  acceptance,  or  more  profit- 
able in  obedience,  than  this  easy  out-of-doors  commandment. 
For  several  hours  we  walked  in  the  way  of  this  precept, 
through  the  untangled  woods  that  lie  behind  the  Forest  Hills 

*  From  ' '  Fisherman 's  Luck, ' '  by  Henry  Van  Dyke.  Copyright,  1905, 
tjy  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

49 


50  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

Lodge,1  where  a  pair  of  pigeon-hawks  had  their  nest;  and 
around  the  brambly  shores  of  the  small  pond,  where  Mary- 
land yellow-throats  and  song-sparrows  were  settled;  and 
under  the  lofty  hemlocks  of  the  fragment  of  forest  across  the 
road,  where  rare  warblers  flitted  silently  among  the  tree-tops. 
The  light  beneath  the  evergreens  was  growing  dim  as  we  came 
out  from  their  shadow  into  the  widespread  glow  of  the  sunset, 
on  the  edge  of  a  grassy  hill,  overlooking  the  long  valley  of 
the  Gale  River,  and  uplooking  to  the  Franconia  Mountains. 

It  was  the  benediction  hour.  The  placid  air  of  the  day 
shed  a  new  tranquillity  over  the  consoling  landscape.  The 
heart  of  the  earth  seemed  to  taste  a  repose  more  perfect  than 
that  of  common  days.  A  hermit-thrush,  far  up  the  vale, 
sang  his  vesper  hymn;  while  the  swallows,  seeking  their 
evening  meal,  circled  above  the  riverfields  without  an  effort, 
twittering  softly,  now  and  then,  as  if  they  must  give  thanks. 
Slight  and  indefinable  touches  in  the  scene,  perhaps  the  mere 
absence  of  the  tiny  human  figures  passing  along  the  road  or 
laboring  in  the  distant  meadows,  perhaps  the  blue  curls  of 
smoke  rising  lazily  from  the  farmhouse  chimneys,  or  the 
family  groups  sitting  under  the  maple-trees  before  the  door, 
diffused  a  sabbath  atmosphere  over  the  world. 

Then  said  the  lad,  lying  on  the  grass  beside  me,  "Father, 
who  owns  the  mountains?" 

I  happened  to  have  heard,  the  day  before,  of  two  or  three 
lumber  companies  that  had  bought  some  of  the  woodland 
slopes;  so  I  told  him  their  names,  adding  that  there  were 
probably  a  good  many  different  owners,  whose  claims  taken 
all  together  would  cover  the  whole  Franconia  range  of  hills. 

"Well,"  answered  the  lad,  after  a  moment  of  silence,  "I 
don't  see  what  difference  that  makes.  Everybody  can  look 
at  them." 

They  lay  stretched  out  before  us  in  the  level  sunlight,  the 
sharp  peaks  outlined  against  the  sky,  the  vast  ridges  of  forest 
sinking  smoothly  towards  the  valleys,  the  deep  hollows  gath- 

1  The  scene  mentioned  in  the  essay  is  in  the  White  Mountain  region 
in  New  Hampshire,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  regions  in  the  United 
States. 


WHO  OWNS  THE  MOUNTAINS?  51 

ering  purple  shadows  in  their  bosoms,  and  the  little  foothills 
standing  out  in  rounded  promontories  of  brighter  green  from 
the  darker  mass  behind  them. 

Far  to  the  east,  the  long  comb  of  Twin  Mountain  extended 
itself  back  into  the  untrodden  wilderness.  Mount  Garfield 
lifted  a  clear-cut  pyramid  through  the  translucent  air.  The 
huge  bulk  of  Lafayette  ascended  majestically  in  front  of  us, 
crowned  with  a  rosy  diadem  of  rocks.  Eagle  Cliff  and  Bald 
Mountain  stretched  their  line  of  scalloped  peaks  across  the 
entrance  to  the  Notch.  Beyond  that  shadowy  vale,  the  swell- 
ing summits  of  Cannon  Mountain  rolled  away  to  meet  the 
tumbling  waves  of  Kinsman,  dominated  by  one  loftier  crested 
billow  that  seemed  almost  ready  to  curl  and  break  out  of 
green  silence  into  snowy  foam.  Far  down  the  sleeping 
Landaff  valley  the  undulating  dome  of  Moosilauke  trembled 
in  the  distant  blue. 

They  were  all  ours,  from  crested  cliff  to  wooded  base.  The 
solemn  groves  of  firs  and  spruces,  the  plumed  sierras  of  lofty 
pines,  the  stately  pillared  forests  of  birch  and  beech,  the  wild 
ravines,  the  tremulous  thickets  of  silvery  poplar,  the  bare 
peaks  with  their  wide  outlooks,  and  the  cool  vales  resounding 
with  the  ceaseless  song  of  little  rivers, — we  knew  and  loved 
them  all;  they  ministered  peace  and  joy  to  us;  they  were 
all  ours,  though  we  held  no  title  deeds  and  our  ownership 
had  never  been  recorded. 

What  is  property,  after  all?  The  law  says  there  are  two 
kinds,  real  and  personal.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  the  only 
real  property  is  that  which  is  truly  personal,  that  which  we 
take  into  our  inner  life  and  make  our  own  forever  by  under- 
standing and  admiration  and  sympathy  and  love.  This  is 
the  only  kind  of  possession  that  is  worth  anything. 

A  gallery  of  great  paintings  adorns  the  house  of  the 
Honorable  Midas  Bond,2  and  every  year  adds  a  new  treasure 
to  his  collection.  He  knows  how  much  they  cost  him,  and  he 
keeps  the  run  of  the  quotations  at  the  auction  sales,   con- 

'  Midas  Bond.  Greek  legend  tells  of  Midas,  king  of  Phrygia,  who  had 
the  power  of  turning  into  gold  everything  that  he  touched.  "Bond" 
is   of  course,  a  modern  synonym  for  wealth. 


52  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

gratulating  himself  as  the  price  of  the  works  of  his  well- 
chosen  artists  rises  in  the  scale,  and  the  value  of  his  art 
treasures  is  enhanced.  But  why  should  he  call  them  his?  He 
is  only  their  custodian.  He  keeps  them  well  varnished,  and 
framed  in  gilt.  But  he  never  passes  through  those  gilded 
frames  into  the  world  of  beauty  that  lies  behind  the  painted 
canvas.  He  knows  nothing  of  those  lovely  places  from  which 
the  artist's  soul  and  hand  have  drawn  their  inspiration. 
They  are  closed  and  barred  to  him.  He  has  bought  the  pic- 
tures, but  he  cannot  buy  the  key.  The  poor  art  student  who 
wanders  through  his  gallery,  lingering  with  awe  and  love 
before  the  masterpieces,  owns  them  far  more  truly  than 
Midas  does. 

Pomposus  Silverman  3  purchased  a  rich  library  a  few  years 
ago.  The  books  were  rare  and  costly.  That  was  the  reason 
why  Pomposus  bought  them.  He  was  proud  to  feel  that  he 
was  the  possessor  of  literary  treasures  which  were  not  to  be 
found  in  the  houses  of  his  wealthiest  acquaintances.  But  the 
threadbare  Bucherfreund,4  who  was  engaged  at  a  slender 
salary  to  catalogue  the  library  and  take  care  of  it,  became 
the  real  proprietor.  Pomposus  paid  for  the  books,  but 
Bucherfreund  enjoyed  them. 

I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  possession  of  much  money  is 
always  a  barrier  to  real  wealth  of  mind  and  heart.  Nor 
would  I  maintain  that  all  the  poor  of  this  world  are  rich  in 
faith  and  heirs  of  the  kingdom.  But  some  of  them  are.  And 
if  some  of  the  rich  of  this  world  (through  the  grace  of  Him 
with  whom  all  things  are  possible)  are  also  modest  in  their 
tastes,  and  gentle  in  their  hearts,  and  open  in  their  minds, 
and  ready  to  be  pleased  with  unbought  pleasures,  they  simply 
share  in  the  best  things  which  are  provided  for  all. 

I  speak  not  now  of  the  strife  that  men  wage  over  the  def- 
inition and  the  laws  of  property.  Doubtless  there  is  much 
here  that  needs  to  be  set  right.    There  are  men  and  women  in 

*  Pomposus  Silverman.  Another  combination  of  a  classical  and  a 
modern  expression, — a  haughty  lord  of  silver. 

*  Biicherfreund.     Lover  of  books. 


WHO  OWNS  THE  MOUNTAINS?  53 

the  world  who  are  shut  out  from  the  right  to  earu  a  living, 
so  poor  that  they  must  perish  for  want  of  daily  bread,  so  full 
of  misery  that  there  is  no  room  for  the  tiniest  seed  of  joy  in 
their  lives.  This  is  the  lingering  shame  of  civilization.  Some 
day,  perhaps,  we  shall  find  the  way  to  banish  it.  Some  day, 
every  man  shall  have  his  title  to  a  share  in  the  world's  great 
work  and  the  world's  large  joy. 

But  meantime  it  is  certain  that,  where  there  are  a  hundred 
poor  bodies  who  suffer  from  physical  privation,  there  are  a 
thousand  poor  souls  who  suffer  from  spiritual  poverty.  To 
relieve  this  greater  suffering  there  needs  no  change  of  laws, 
only  a  change  of  heart. 

What  does  it  profit  a  man  to  be  the  landed  proprietor  of 
countless  acres  unless  he  can  reap  the  harvest  of  delight  that 
blooms  from  every  rood  of  God's  earth  for  the  seeing  eye  and 
the  loving  spirit?  And  who  can  reap  that  harvest  so  closely 
that  there  shall  not  be  abundant  gleaning  left  for  all  man- 
kind? The  most  that  a  wide  principality  can  yield  to  its 
legal  owner  is  a  living.  But  the  real  owner  can  gather  from 
a  field  of  goldenrod,  shining  in  the  August  sunlight,  an  un- 
earned increment  of  delight. 

We  measure  success  by  accumulation.  The  measure  is  false. 
The  true  measure  is  appreciation.  He  who  loves  most  has 
most. 

How  foolishly  we  train  ourselves  for  the  work  of  life !  We 
give  our  most  arduous  and  eager  efforts  to  the  cultivation  of 
those  faculties  which  will  serve  us  in  the  competitions  of  the 
forum  and  the  market-place.  But  if  we  were  wise,  we  should 
care  infinitely  more  for  the  unfolding  of  those  inward,  secret, 
spiritual  powers  by  which  alone  we  can  become  the  owners  of 
anything  that  is  worth  having.  Surely  God  is  the  great 
proprietor.  Yet  all  His  works  He  has  given  away.  He  holds 
no  title-deeds.  The  one  thing  that  is  His,  is  the  perfect  under- 
standing, the  perfect  joy,  the  perfect  love,  of  all  things  that 
He  has  made.  To  a  share  in  this  high  ownership  He  welcomes 
all  who  are  poor  in  spirit.  This  is  the  earth  which  the  meek 
inherit.    This  is  the  patrimony  of  the  saints  in  light 


54 


MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 


"Come,  laddie,"  I  said  to  my  comrade,  "let  us  go  home. 
You  and  I  are  very  rich.  We  own  the  mountains.  But  we 
can  never  sell  them,  and  we  don't  want  to." 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  In  what  does  real  ownership  consist? 

2.  Why  is  it  wrong  to  "measure  success  by  accumulation"? 

3.  What  is  "spiritual  poverty"? 

4.  How  may  you  truly  own  a  book? 

5.  How  may  you  truly  own  a  beautiful  scene? 

6.  How  may  you  become  a  really  rich  person? 

7.  How  may  you  truly  own  a  beautiful  picture? 

8.  How  does  Dr.  Van  Dyke  introduce  his  principal  thought? 

9.  What  is  the  spirit  of  the  essay? 

10.  Make  a  list  of  the  most  beautiful  sentences. 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 


1.  The  Fountain  of  Youth 

2.  The  Place  of  Happiness 

3.  A  Wise  Person 

4.  Successful  People 

5.  A  Truly  Useful  Life 

6.  A  Wide  Traveler 

7.  Comfort 
The  Best  Medicine 
An  Explorer  in  Daily  Life 


8 

9 

10 


Investing  for  the  Future 


11.  Spendthrifts 

12.  Hidden  Treasures 

13.  Angels  in  Reality 

14.  Real  Strength 

15.  My  Own  City 

16.  A  Master  of  Men 

17.  Having  One's  Way 

18.  A  Wise  Reader 

19.  Heroism  at  Home 

20.  Sunshine  All  the  Time 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

Show,  in  your  essay,  that  all  people  have  at  their  command  some 
wealth,  or  some  wonderful  power,  that  they  little  suspect.  Show 
how  they  may  make  use  of  the  opportunity  that  lies  before  them. 
In  order  to  do  this,  lead  into  your  thought  as  naturally  as  Dr.  Van 
Dyke  leads  into  his.  You  will  write  more  wisely  and  more  sincerely 
if  you  set  your  thoughts  in  motion  from  some  real  experience, — 
from  some  time  when  you  were  genuinely  impressed  and  uplifted  in 
spirit. 


THE  LEGENDAEY  STORY 
RUNNING  WOLF 

By  ALGERNON  BLACKWOOD 

(2869 — ).  An  English  author  and  journalist.  He  is  a 
graduate  of  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  For  a  time  he  was 
on  the  staff  of  the  New  York  Sun,  and  of  the  New  York  Times. 
He  is  the  author  of  The  Lost  Valley;  Paris  Garden;  A  Pris- 
oner in  Fairyland;  The  Starlight  Express.  Ee  writes  with 
strongly  suggestive  power. 

The  legend  and  its  origin  and  development,  are  well  illustrated  in  the 
story  of  Eunning  Wolf.  Some  hundred  years  before  the  story  begins, 
so  the  author  says,  certain  tragic  events  had  occurred  in  the  Canadian 
backwoods.  From  those  events  had  grown  beliefs  held  by  all  who  lived 
within  the  region.  The  author  very  cleverly  makes  his  story  a  con- 
tinuation of  the  legend. 

Eunning  Wolf  deals  not  only  with  the  beliefs  of  a  primitive  people 
but  also  with  the  supernatural.  It  suggests  an  unhappy,  wandering 
spirit  unable  to  escape  from  the  chains  of  earth.  In  its  treatment  of 
the  supernatural  the  story  is  surpassingly  powerful.  It  gains  every 
effect  through  the  power  of  suggestion.  At  no  time  does  the  story,  in 
so  many  words,  say  that  the  supernatural  is  present.  Instead,  it  places 
the  reader  in  a  position  where  it  is  natural  to  infer  something  beyond 
the  ordinary.  In  other  words,  the  story  does  what  life  does:  it  presents 
facts  and  leaves  people  to  draw  their  own  conclusions. 

Over  the  entire  story  hangs  an  atmosphere  entirely  in  keeping  with 
the  events  narrated.  The  reader  feels  drawn  into  the  solemn  silence 
of  the  vast  forest ;  he  knows  the  loneliness  of  little-visited  lakes,  and 
the  black  terror  that  surrounds  a  wilderness  camp-fire  at  night. 

The  story  is  rich  with  foreshadowing,  sentence  after  sentence  pointing 
toward  the  climax  and  emphasizing  the  single  effect  that  is  produced. 

Because  of  its  haunt ingly  suggestive  power  Eunning  Wolf  is  a  re- 
markable story  of  the  supernatural. 

' '  Loneliness  in  a  backwoods  camp  brings  charm,  pleasure,  and  a 
happy  sense  of  calm  until,  and  unless,  it  comes  too  near.  Once  it  has 
crept  within  short  distance,  however,  it  may  easily  cross  the  narrow 
line  between  comfort  and  discomfort." 

The  man  who  enjoys  an  adventure  outside  the  general 
experience  of  the  race,  and  imparts  it  to  others,  must  not  be 

55 


56  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

surprised  if  he  is  taken  for  either  a  liar  or  a  fool,  as  Malcolm 
Hyde,  hotel  clerk  on  a  holiday,  discovered  in  due  course.  Nor 
is  "enjoy"  the  right  word  to  use  in  describing  his  emotions; 
the  word  he  chose  was  probably  "survive." 

"When  he  first  set  eyes  on  Medicine  Lake  he  was  struck  by 
its  still,  sparkling  beauty,  lying  there  in  the  vast  Canadian 
backwoods;  next,  by  its  extreme  loneliness;  and,  lastly — a 
good  deal  later,  this — by  its  combination  of  beauty,  loneliness, 
and  singular  atmosphere,  due  to  the  fact  that  it  was  the 
scene  of  his  adventure. 

"It  's  fairly  stiff  with  big  fish,"  said  Morton  of  the  Montreal 
Sporting  Club.  "Spend  your  holiday  there — up  Mattawa 
way,  some  fifteen  miles  west  of  Stony  Creek.  You  '11  have  it 
all  to  yourself  except  for  an  old  Indian  who  's  got  a  shack 
there.  Camp  on  the  east  side — if  you  '11  take  a  tip  from  me." 
He  then  talked  for  half  an  hour  about  the  wonderful  sport; 
yet  he  was  not  otherwise  very  communicative,  and  did  not 
suffer  questions  gladly,  Hyde  noticed.  Nor  had  he  stayed 
there  very  long  himself.  If  it  was  such  a  paradise  as  Morton, 
its  discoverer  and  the  most  experienced  rod  in  the  province, 
claimed,  why  had  he  himself  spent  only  three  days  there? 

"Ran  short  of  grub,"  was  the  explanation  offered;  but  to 
another  friend  he  had  mentioned  briefly,  "flies,"  and  to  a 
third,  so  Hyde  learned  later,  he  gave  the  excuse  that  his  half « 
breed  "took  sick,"  necessitating  a  quick  return  to  civiliza- 
tion. 

Hyde,  however,  cared  little  for  the  explanations;  his  in- 
terest in  these  came  later.  "Stiff  with  fish"  was  the  phrase 
he  liked.  He  took  the  Canadian  Pacific  train  to  Mattawa, 
laid  in  his  outfit  at  Stony  Creek,  and  set  off  thence  for  the  fif- 
teen-mile canoe-trip  without  a  care  in  the  world. 

Traveling  light,  the  portages  did  not  trouble  him;  the 
water  was  swift  and  easy,  the  rapids  negotiable;  everything 
came  his  way,  as  the  saying  is.  Occasionally  he  saw  big  fish 
making  for  the  deeper  pools,  and  was  sorely  tempted  to 
stop ;  but  he  resisted.  He  pushed  on  between  the  immense 
world  of  forests  that  stretched  for  hundreds  of  miles,  known 
to  deer,   bear,   moose,   and   wolf,   but   strange  to  any  echo 


KUNNING  WOLF  57 

of  human  tread,  a  deserted  and  primeval  wilderness.  The 
autumn  day  was  calm,  the  water  sang  and  sparkled,  the 
blue  sky  hung  cloudless  over  all,  ablaze  with  light.  Toward 
evening  he  passed  an  old  beaver-dam,  rounded  a  little  point, 
and  had  his  first  sight  of  Medicine  Lake.  He  lifted  his  drip- 
ping paddle ;  the  canoe  shot  with  silent  glide  into  calm  water. 
He  gave  an  exclamation  of  delight,  for  the  loveliness  caught 
his  breath  away. 

Though  primarily  a  sportsman,  he  was  not  insensible  to 
beauty.  The  lake  formed  a  crescent,  perhaps  four  miles 
long,  its  width  between  a  mile  and  half  a  mile.  The  slant- 
ing gold  of  sunset  flooded  it.  No  wind  stirred  its  crystal 
surface.  Here  it  had  lain  since  the  red-skin's  god  first  made 
it;  here  it  would  lie  until  he  dried  it  up  again.  Towering 
spruce  and  hemlock  trooped  to  its  very  edge,  majestic  cedars 
leaned  down  as  if  to  drink,  crimson  sumachs  shone  in  fiery 
patches,  and  maples  gleamed  orange  and  red  beyond  be- 
lief.   The  air  was  like  wine,  with  the  silence  of  a  dream. 

It  was  here  the  red  men  formerly  "made  medicine,"  with 
all  the  wild  ritual  and  tribal  ceremony  of  an  ancient  day. 
But  it  was  of  Morton,  rather  than  of  Indians,  that  Hyde 
thought.  If  this  lonely,  hidden  paradise  was  really  stiff 
with  big  fish,  he  owed  a  lot  to  Morton  for  the  information. 
Peace  invaded  him,  but  the  excitement  of  the  hunter  lay 
below. 

He  looked  about  him  with  quick,  practised  eye  for  a  camp- 
ing-place before  the  sun  sank  below  the  forests  and  the  half- 
lights  came.  The  Indian's  shack,  lying  in  full  sunshine  on 
the  eastern  shore,  he  found  at  once;  but  the  trees  lay  too 
thick  about  it  for  comfort,  nor  did  he  wish  to  be  so  close 
to  its  inhabitant.  Upon  the  opposite  side,  however,  an  ideal 
clearing  offered.  This  lay  already  in  shadow,  the  huge  forest 
darkening  it  toward  evening ;  but  the  open  space  attracted. 
He  paddled  over  quickly  and  examined  it.  The  ground  was 
hard  and  dry,  he  found,  and  a  little  brook  ran  tinkling  down 
one  side  of  it  into  the  lake.  This  outfall,  too,  would  be  a 
good  fishing  spot.  Also  it  was  sheltered.  A  few  low  willows 
marked  the  mouth. 


58  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

An  experienced  camper  soon  makes  up  his  mind.  It  was 
a  perfect  site,  and  some  charred  logs,  with  traces  of  former 
fires,  proved  that  he  was  not  the  first  to  think  so.  Hyde 
was  delighted.  Then,  suddenly,  disappointment  came  to  tinge 
his  pleasure.  His  kit  was  landed,  and  preparations  for  put- 
ting up  the  tent  were  begun,  when  he  recalled  a  detail  that 
excitement  had  so  far  kept  in  the  background  of  his  mind — 
Morton's  advice.  But  not  Morton's  only,  for  the  storekeeper 
at  Stony  Creek  had  reinforced  it.  The  big  fellow  with  strag- 
gling mustache  and  stooping  shoulders,  dressed  in  shirt  and 
trousers,  had  handed  him  out  a  final  sentence  with  the  bacon, 
flour,  condensed  milk,  and  sugar.  He  had  repeated  Mor- 
ton's half-forgotten  words: 

"Put  yer  tent  on  the  east  shore.  I  should,"  he  had  said 
at  parting. 

He  remembered  Morton,  too,  apparently.  "A  shortish 
fellow,  brown  as  an  Indian  and  fairly  smelling  of  the  woods. 
Traveling  with  Jake,  the  half-breed."  That  assuredly  was 
Morton.  "Didn't  stay  long,  now,  did  he?"  he  added  in  a  re- 
flective tone. 

"Going  Windy  Lake  way,  are  yer?  Or  Ten  Mile  Water, 
maybe  ? "  he  had  first  inquired  of  Hyde. 

"Medicine  Lake." 

"Is  that  so?"  the  man  said,  as  though  he  doubted  it  for 
some  obscure  reason.  He  pulled  at  his  ragged  mustache 
a  moment.  "Is  that  so,  now?"  he  repeated.  And  the  final 
words  followed  him  downstream  after  a  considerable  pause — 
the  advice  about  the  best  shore  on  which  to  put  his  tent. 

All  this  now  suddenly  flashed  back  upon  Hyde's  mind 
with  a  tinge  of  disappointment  and  annoyance,  for  when 
two  experienced  men  agreed,  their  opinion  was  not  to  be 
lightly  disregarded.  He  wished  he  had  asked  the  store- 
keeper for  more  details.  He  looked  about  him,  he  reflected, 
he  hesitated.  His  ideal  camping-ground  lay  certainly  on 
the  forbidden  shore.  What  in  the  world,  he  wondered,  could 
be  the  objection  to  it  ? 

But  the  light  was  fading;  he  must  decide  quickly  one  way 
ar  the  other.     After  staring  at  his  unpacked  dunnage  and 


RUNNING  WOLF  59 

the  tent,  already  half  erected,  he  made  up  his  mind  with 
a  muttered  expression  that  consigned  both  Morton  and  the 
storekeeper  to  less  pleasant  places.  "They  must  have  some 
reason,"  he  growled  to  himself;  "fellows  like  that  usually 
know  what  they  're  talking  about.  I  guess  I  'd  better  shift 
over  to  the  other  side — for  to-night,  at  any  rate." 

He  glanced  across  the  water  before  actually  reloading, 
No  smoke  rose  from  the  Indian's  shack.  He  had  seen  no 
sign  of  a  canoe.  The  man,  he  decided,  was  away.  Re* 
luctantly,  then,  he  left  the  good  camping-ground  and  paddled 
across  the  lake,  and  half  an  hour  later  his  tent  was  up,  fire- 
wood collected,  and  two  small  trout  were  already  caught 
for  supper.  But  the  bigger  fish,  he  knew,  lay  waiting  for 
him  on  the  other  side  by  the  little  outfall,  and  he  fell  asleep 
at  length  on  his  bed  of  balsam  boughs,  annoyed  and  dis- 
appointed, yet  wondering  how  a  mere  sentence  could  have 
persuaded  him  so  easily  against  his  own  better  judgment. 
He  slept  like  the  dead ;  the  sun  was  well  up  before  he  stirred. 

But  his  morning  mood  was  a  very  different  one.  The 
brilliant  light,  the  peace,  the  intoxicating  air,  all  this  was 
too  exhilarating  for  the  mind  to  harbor  foolish  fancies,  and 
he  marveled  that  he  could  have  been  so  weak  the  night  be- 
fore. No  hesitation  lay  in  him  anywhere.  He  struck  camp 
immediately  after  breakfast,  paddled  back  across  the  strip 
of  shining  water,  and  quickly  settled  in  upon  the  forbidden 
shore,  as  he  now  called  it,  with  a  contemptuous  grin.  And 
the  more  he  saw  of  the  spot,  the  better  he  liked  it.  There 
was  plenty  of  wood,  running  water  to  drink,  an  open  space 
about  the  tent,  and  there  were  no  flies.  The  fishing,  more- 
over, was  magnificent;  Morton's  description  was  fully  jus- 
tified, and  "stiff  with  big  fish"  for  once  was  not  an  ex- 
aggeration. 

The  useless  hours  of  the  early  afternoon  he  passed  dozing 
in  the  sun,  or  wandering  through  the  underbrush  beyond 
the  camp.  He  found  no  sign  of  anything  unusual.  He 
bathed  in  a  cool,  deep  pool;  he  reveled  in  the  lonely  little 
paradise.  Lonely  it  certainly  was,  but  the  loneliness  was  part 
of  its  charm;  the  stillness,  the  peace,  the  isolation  of  this 


60  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

beautiful  backwoods  lake  delighted  him.  The  silence  was 
divine.     Pie  was  entirely  satisfied. 

After  a  brew  of  tea,  he  strolled  toward  evening  along  the 
shore,  looking  for  the  first  sign  of  a  rising  fish.  A  faint 
ripple  on  the  water,  with  the  lengthening  shadows,  made 
good  conditions.  Plop  followed  plop,  as  the  big  fellows  rose, 
snatched  at  their  food,  and  vanished  into  the  depths.  He 
hurried  back.  Ten  minutes  later  he  had  taken  his  rods  and 
was  gliding  cautiously  in  the  canoe  through  the  quiet  water. 

So  good  was  the  sport,  indeed,  and  so  quickly  did  the 
big  trout  pile  up  in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe  that,  despite 
the  growing  lateness,  he  found  it  hard  to  tear  himself  away. 
"One  more,"  he  said,  "and  then  I  really  will  go."  He 
landed  that  "one  more,"  and  was  in  the  act  of  taking  it 
off  the  hook,  when  the  deep  silence  of  the  evening  was 
curiously  disturbed.  He  became  abruptly  aware  that  some 
one  watched  him.  A  pair  of  eyes,  it  seemed,  were  fixed 
upon  him  from  some  point  in  the  surrounding  shadows. 

Thus,  at  least,  he  interpreted  the  odd  disturbance  in  his 
happy  mood ;  for  thus  he  felt  it.  The  feeling  stole  over  him 
without  the  slightest  warning.  He  was  not  alone.  The 
slippery  big  trout  dripped  from  his  fingers.  He  sat  motion- 
less, and  stared  about  him. 

Nothing  stirred ;  the  ripple  on  the  lake  had  died  away ; 
there  was  no  wind;  the  forest  lay  a  single  purple  mass  of 
shadow;  the  yellow  sky,  fast  fading,  threw  reflections  that 
troubled  the  eye  and  made  distances  uncertain.  But  there 
was  no  sound,  no  movement;  he  saw  no  figure  anywhere. 
Yet  he  knew  that  some  one  watched  him,  and  a  wave  of 
quite  unreasoning  terror  gripped  him.  The  nose  of  the 
canoe  was  against  the  bank.  In  a  moment,  and  instinctively, 
he  shoved  it  off  and  paddled  into  deeper  water.  The  watcher, 
it  came  to  him  also  instinctively,  was  quite  close  to  him 
upon  that  bank.    But  where  ?    And  who  ?    Was  it  the  Indian  ? 

Here,  in  deeper  water,  and  some  twenty  yards  from  the 
shore,  he  paused  and  strained  both  sight  and  hearing  to 
find  some  possible  clue.  He  felt  half  ashamed,  now  that 
the  first  strange  feeling  passed  a  little.     But  the  certainty 


"The  feeling  stole  over  him  without  the  slightest  warning.     He 
was  not  alone."     (page  60} 


RUNNING  WOLF  61 

remained.  Absurd  as  it  was,  he  felt  positive  that  some  one 
■watched  him  with  concentrated  and  intent  regard.  Every 
fiber  in  his  being  told  him  so ;  and  though  he  could  dis- 
cover no  figure,  no  new  outline  on  the  shore,  he  could  even 
have  sworn  in  which  clump  of  willow  bushes  the  hidden  per- 
son crouched  and  stared.  His  attention  seemed  drawn  to 
that  particular  clump. 

The  water  dripped  slowly  from  his  paddle,  now  lying  across 
the  thwarts.  There  was  no  other  sound.  The  canvas  of  his 
tent  gleamed  dimly.  A  star  or  two  were  out.  He  waited. 
Nothing  happened. 

Then,  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come,  the  feeling  passed,  and 
he  knew  that  the  person  who  had  been  watching  him  in- 
tently had  gone.  It  was  as  if  a  current  had  been  turned 
off;  the  normal  world  flowed  back;  the  landscape  emptied 
as  if  some  one  had  left  a  room.  The  disagreeable  feeling  left 
him  at  the  same  time,  so  that  he  instantly  turned  the  canoe 
in  to  the  shore  again,  landed,  and,  paddle  in  hand,  went  over 
to  examine  the  clump  of  willows  he  had  singled  out  a^ 
the  place  of  concealment.  There  was  no  one  there,  of 
course,  or  any  trace  of  recent  human  occupancy.  No  leaves, 
no  branches  stirred,  nor  was  a  single  twig  displaced;  his 
keen  and  practised  sight  detected  no  sign  of  tracks  upon  the 
ground.  Yet,  for  all  that,  he  felt  positive  that  a  little  time 
ago  some  one  had  crouched  among  these  very  leaves  and 
watched  him.  He  remained  absolutely  convinced  of  it.  The 
Watcher,  whether  Indian,  hunter,  stray  lumberman,  or  wan- 
dering half-breed,  had  now  withdrawn,  a  search  was  useless, 
and  dusk  was  falling.  He  returned  to  his  little  camp,  more 
disturbed  perhaps  than  he  cared  to  acknowledge.  He  cooked 
his  supper,  hung  up  his  catch  on  a  string,  so  that  no  prowling 
animal  could  get  at  it  during  the  night,  and  prepared  to 
make  himself  comfortable  until  bed-time.  Unconsciously, 
he  built  a  bigger  fire  than  usual,  and  found  himself  peering 
over  his  pipe  into  the  deep  shadows  beyond  the  firelight, 
Straining  his  ears  to  catch  the  slightest  sound.  He  remained 
generally  on  the  alert  in  a  way  that  was  new  to  him. 

A  man  under  such  conditions  and  in  such  a  place  need 


62  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

not  know  discomfort  until  the  sense  of  loneliness  strikes 
him  as  too  vivid  a  reality.  Loneliness  in  a  backwoods  camp 
brings  charm,  pleasure,  and  a  happy  sense  of  calm  until, 
and  unless,  it  comes  too  near.  It  should  remain  an  ingredi- 
ent only  among  other  conditions;  it  should  not  be  directly, 
vividly  noticed.  Once  it  has  crept  within  short  range,  how- 
ever, it  may  easily  cross  the  narrow  line  between  comfort 
and  discomfort,  and  darkness  is  an  undesirable  time  for 
the  transition.  A  curious  dread  may  easily  follow — the  dread 
lest  the  loneliness  suddenly  be  disturbed,  and  the  solitary 
human  feel  himself  open  to  attack. 

For  Hyde,  now,  this  transition  had  been  already  accom- 
plished ;  the  too  intimate  sense  of  his  loneliness  had  shifted 
abruptly  into  the  worse  condition  of  no  longer  being  quite 
alone.  It  was  an  awkward  moment,  and  the  hotel  clerk 
realized  his  position  exactly.  He  did  not  quite  like  it.  He 
sat  there,  with  his  back  to  the  blazing  logs,  a  very  visible 
object  in  the  light,  while  all  about  him  the  darkness  of 
the  forest  lay  like  an  impenetrable  wall.  He  could  not  see 
a  foot  beyond  the  small  circle  of  his  camp-fire ;  the  silence 
about  him  was  like  the  silence  of  the  dead.  No  leaf  rustled, 
no  wave  lapped ;  he  himself  sat  motionless  as  a  log. 

Then  again  he  became  suddenly  aware  that  the  person 
who  watched  him  had  returned,  and  that  same  intent  and 
concentrated  gaze  as  before  was  fixed  upon  him  where  he 
lay.  There  was  no  warning ;  he  heard  no  stealthy  tread  or 
snapping  of  dry  twigs,  yet  the  owner  of  those  steady  eyes 
was  very  close  to  him,  probably  not  a  dozen  feet  away. 
This  sense  of  proximity  was  overwhelming. 

It  is  unquestionable  that  a  shiver  ran  down  his  spine. 
This  time,  moreover,  he  felt  positive  that  the  man  crouched 
just  beyond  the  firelight,  the  distance  he  himself  could 
see  being  nicely  calculated,  and  straight  in  front  of  him.  For 
some  minutes  he  sat  without  stirring  a  single  muscle,  yet 
with  each  muscle  ready  and  alert,  straining  his  eyes  in  vain 
to  pierce  the  darkness,  but  only  succeeding  in  dazzling  his 
sight  with  the  reflected  light.  Then,  as  he  shifted  his  posi- 
tion slowly,  cautiously,  to  obtain  another  angle  of  vision,  hia 


EXJNNING  WOLF  63 

heart  gave  two  big  thumps  against  his  ribs  and  the  hair 
seemed  to  rise  on  his  scalp  with  the  sense  of  cold  that  shot 
horribly  up  his  spine.  In  the  darkness  facing  him  he  saw 
two  small  and  greenish  circles  that  were  certainly  a  pair  of 
eyes,  yet  not  the  eyes  of  Indian,  hunter,  or  of  any  human 
being.  It  was  a  pair  of  animal  eyes  that  stared  so  fixedly  at 
him  out  of  the  night.  And  this  certainty  had  an  immediate 
and  natural  effect  upon  him. 

For,  at  the  menace  of  those  eyes,  the  fears  of  millions  of 
long  dead  hunters  since  the  dawn  of  time  woke  in  him. 
Hotel  clerk  though  he  was,  heredity  surged  through  him  in 
an  automatic  wave  of  instinct.  His  hand  groped  for  a 
weapon.  His  fingers  fell  on  the  iron  head  of  his  small  camp 
ax,  and  at  once  he  was  himself  again.  Confidence  returned; 
the  vague,  superstitious  dread  was  gone.  This  was  a  bear 
or  wolf  that  smelt  his  catch  and  came  to  steal  it.  With  be- 
ings of  that  sort  he  knew  instinctively  how  to  deal,  yet  ad- 
mitting, by  this  very  instinct,  that  his  original  dread  had 
been  of  quite  another  kind. 

"I  '11  damned  quick  find  out  what  it  is,"  he  exclaimed 
aloud,  and  snatching  a  burning  brand  from  the  fire,  he 
hurled  it  with  good  aim  straight  at  the  eyes  of  the  beast 
before  him. 

The  bit  of  pitch-pine  fell  in  a  shower  of  sparks  that  lit 
the  dry  grass  this  side  of  the  animal,  flared  up  a  moment, 
then  died  quickly  down  again.  But  in  that  instant  of  bright 
illumination  he  saw  clearly  what  his  unwelcome  visitor  was. 
A  big  timber  wolf  sat  on  its  hindquarters,  staring  steadily 
at  him  through  the  firelight.  He  saw  its  legs  and  shoulders, 
he  saw  its  hair,  he  saw  also  the  big  hemlock  trunks  lit  up 
behind  it,  and  the  willow  scrub  on  each  side.  It  formed 
a  vivid,  clear-cut  picture  shown  in  clear  detail  by  the  momen- 
tary blaze.  To  his  amazement,  however,  the  wolf  did  not 
turn  and  bolt  away  from  the  burning  log,  but  withdrew  a 
few  yards  only,  and  sat  there  again  on  its  haunches,  staring, 
staring  as  before.  Heavens,  how  it  stared!  He  "shoed"  it, 
but  without  effect;  it  did  not  budge.  He  did  not  waste  an- 
other good  log  on  it,  for  his  fear  was  dissipated  now,  and  a 


64  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

timber  wolf  was  a  timber  wolf,  and  it  might  sit  there  as 
long  as  it  pleased,  provided  it  did  not  try  to  steal  his  catch. 
No  alarm  was  in  him  any  more.  He  knew  that  wolves  were 
harmless  in  the  summer  and  autumn,  and  even  when 
"packed"  in  the  winter,  they  would  attack  a  man  only  when 
suffering  desperate  hunger.  So  he  lay  and  watched  the  beast, 
threw  bits  of  stick  in  its  direction,  even  talked  to  it,  wonder- 
ing only  that  it  never  moved.  "You  can  stay  there  forever,  if 
you  like,"  he  remarked  to  it  aloud,  "for  you  cannot  get  at 
my  fish,  and  the  rest  of  the  grub  I  shall  take  into  the  tent 
with  me." 

The  creature  blinked  its  bright  green  eyes,  but  made  no 
move. 

Why,  then,  if  his  fear  was  gone,  did  he  think  of  cer- 
tain things  as  he  rolled  himself  in  the  Hudson  Bay  blankets 
before  going  to  sleep?  The  immobility  of  the  animal  was 
strange,  its  refusal  to  turn  and  bolt  was  still  stranger.  Never 
before  had  he  known  a  wild  creature  that  was  not  afraid 
of  fire.  Why  did  it  sit  and  watch  him,  as  with  purpose  in 
its  dreadful  eyes?  How  had  he  felt  its  presence  earlier 
and  instantly?  A  timber  wolf,  especially  a  solitary  timber 
wolf,  was  a  timid  thing,  yet  this  one  feared  neither  man  nor 
fire.  Now  as  he  lay  there  wrapped  in  his  blankets  inside 
the  cozy  tent,  it  sat  outside  beneath  the  stars,  beside  the 
fading  embers,  the  wind  chilly  in  its  fur,  the  ground  cool- 
ing beneath  its  planted  paws,  watching  him,  steadily  watch- 
ing him,  perhaps  until  the  dawn. 

It  was  unusual,  it  was  strange.  Having  neither  imagina- 
tion nor  tradition,  he  called  upon  no  store  of  racial  visions. 
Matter  of  fact,  a  hotel  clerk  on  a  fishing  holiday,  he  lay 
there  in  his  blankets,  merely  wondering  and  puzzled.  A 
timber  wolf  was  a  timber  wolf  and  nothing  more.  Yet  this 
timber  wolf — the  idea  haunted  him — was  different.  In  a 
word,  the  deeper  part  of  his  original  uneasiness  remained. 
He  tossed  about,  he  shivered  sometimes  in  his  broken  sleep, 
he  did  not  go  out  to  see,  but  he  woke  early  and  unrefreshed. 
Again,  with  the  sunshine  and  the  morning  wind,  however, 
the  incident  of  the  night  before  was  forgotten,  almost  un= 


KUNNING  WOLF  65 

real.  His  hunting  zeal  was  uppermost.  The  tea  and  fish 
were  delicious,  his  pipe  had  never  tasted  so  good,  the  glory 
of  this  lonely  lake  amid  primeval  forests  went  to  his  head 
a  little ;  he  was  a  hunter  before  the  Lord,1  and  nothing  else. 
He  tried  the  edge  of  the  lake,  and  in  the  excitement  of  play- 
ing a  big  fish,  knew  suddenly  that  it,  the  wolf,  was  there. 
He  paused  with  the  rod,  exactly  as  if  struck.  He  looked  about 
him,  he  looked  in  a  definite  direction.  The  brilliant  sunshine 
made  every  smallest  detail  clear  and  sharp — boulders  of 
granite,  burned  stems,  crimson  sumach,  pebbles  along  the 
shore  in  neat,  separate  detail — without  revealing  where  the 
watcher  hid.  Then,  his  sight  wandering  farther  inshore 
among  the  tangled  undergrowth,  he  suddenly  picked  up  the 
familiar,  half-expected  outline.  The  wolf  was  lying  be- 
hind a  granite  boulder,  so  that  only  the  head,  the  muzzle, 
and  the  eyes  were  visible.  It  merged  in  its  background. 
Had  he  not  known  it  was  a  wolf,  he  could  never  have  sepa- 
rated it  from  the  landscape.    The  eyes  shone  in  the  sunlight. 

There  it  lay.  He  looked  straight  at  it.  Their  eyes,  in  fact, 
actually  met  full  and  square.  "Great  Scot!"  he  exclaimed 
aloud,  "why,  it  's  like  looking  at  a  human  being!"  And 
from  that  moment,  unwittingly,  he  established  a  singular 
personal  relation  with  the  beast.  And  what  followed  con- 
firmed this  undesirable  impression,  for  the  animal  rose  in- 
stantly and  came  down  in  leisurely  fashion  to  the  shore,  where 
it  stood  looking  back  at  him.  It  stood  and  stared  into 
his  eyes  like  some  great  wild  dog,  so  that  he  was  aware  of  a 
new  and  almost  incredible  sensation — that  it  courted  recog- 
nition. 

"Well!  well!"  he  exclaimed  again,  relieving  his  feelings 
by  addressing  it  aloud,  "if  this  doesn't  beat  everything  I 
ever  saw !    What  d '  you  want,  anyway  ? ' ' 

He  examined  it  now  more  carefully.  He  had  never  seen 
a  wolf  so  big  before ;  it  was  a  tremendous  beast,  a  nasty  cus- 
tomer to  tackle,  he  reflected,  if  it  ever  came  to  that.  It 
stood  there  absolutely  fearless  and  full  of  confidence.     In 

*A  reference   to   Genesis  10:9,  where  Nimrod  is  called  "a  mighty 
hunter  before  the  Lord. ' ' 


66  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

the  clear  sunlight  he  took  in  every  detail  of  it — a  huge, 
shaggy,  lean-flanked  timber  wolf,  its  wicked  eyes  staring 
straight  into  his  own,  almost  with  a  kind  of  purpose  in 
them.  He  saw  its  great  jaws,  its  teeth,  and  its  tongue,  hung 
out,  dropping  saliva  a  little.  And  yet  the  idea  of  its  savagery, 
its  fierceness,  was  very  little  in  him. 

He  was  amazed  and  puzzled  beyond  belief.  He  wished 
the  Indian  would  come  back.  He  did  not  understand  this 
strange  behavior  in  an  animal.  Its  eyes,  the  odd  expres- 
sion in  them,  gave  him  a  queer,  unusual,  difficult  feeling. 
Had  his  nerves  gone  wrong?  he  almost  wondered. 

The  beast  stood  on  the  shore  and  looked  at  him.  He 
wished  for  the  first  time  that  he  had  brought  a  rifle.  "With 
a  resounding  smack  he  brought  his  paddle  down  flat  upon 
the  water,  using  all  his  strength,  till  the  echoes  rang  as 
from  a  pistol-shot  that  was  audible  from  one  end  of  the  lake 
to  the  other.  The  wolf  never  stirred.  He  shouted,  but  the 
beast  remained  unmoved.  He  blinked  his  eyes,  speaking  as 
to  a  dog,  a  domestic  animal,  a  creature  accustomed  to  human 
ways.    It  blinked  its  eyes  in  return. 

At  length,  increasing  his  distance  from  the  shore,  he  con^ 
tinued  fishing,  and  the  excitement  of  the  marvelous  sport 
held  his  attention — his  surface  attention,  at  any  rate.  At 
times  he  almost  forgot  the  attendant  beast ;  yet  whenever 
he  looked  up,  he  saw  it  there.  And  worse ;  when  he  slowly 
paddled  home  again,  he  observed  it  trotting  along  the  shore 
as  though  to  keep  him  company.  Crossing  a  little  bay,  he 
spurted,  hoping  to  reach  the  other  point  before  his  undesired 
and  undesirable  attendant.  Instantly  the  brute  broke  into 
that  rapid,  tireless  lope  that,  except  on  ice,  can  run  down 
anything  on  four  legs  in  the  woods.  "When  he  reached  the 
distant  point,  the  wolf  was  waiting  for  him.  He  raised 
his  paddle  from  the  water,  pausing  a  moment  for  reflection ; 
for  this  very  close  attention — there  were  dusk  and  night 
yet  to  come — he  certainly  did  not  relish.  His  camp  was  near ; 
he  had  to  land ;  he  felt  uncomfortable  even  in  the  sunshine 
of  broad  day,  when,  to  his  keen  relief,  about  half  a  mile 
from  the  tent,  he  saw  the  creature  suddenly  stop  and  sit 


EXJNNING  WOLF  67 

down  in  the  open.  He  waited  a  moment,  then  paddled  on. 
It  did  not  follow.  There  was  no  attempt  to  move ;  it  merely 
sat  and  watched  him.  After  a  few  hundred  yards,  he  looked 
back.  It  was  still  sitting  where  he  left  it.  And  the 
absurd,  yet  significant,  feeling  came  to  him  that  the  beast 
divined  his  thought,  his  anxiety,  his  dread,  and  was  now 
showing  him,  as  well  as  it  could,  that  it  entertained  no 
hostile  feeling  and  did  not  meditate  attack. 

He  turned  the  canoe  toward  the  shore ;  he  landed ;  he 
cooked  his  supper  in  the  dusk ;  the  animal  made  no  sign. 
Not  far  away  it  certainly  lay  and  watched,  but  it  did  not 
advance.  And  to  Hyde,  observant  now  in  a  new  way,  came 
one  sharp,  vivid  reminder  of  the  strange  atmosphere  into 
which  his  commonplace  personality  had  strayed :  he  suddenly 
recalled  that  his  relations  with  the  beast,  already  established, 
had  progressed  distinctly  a  stage  further.  This  startled  him, 
yet  without  the  accompanying  alarm  he  must  certainly  have 
felt  twenty-four  hours  before.  He  had  an  understanding 
with  the  wolf.  He  was  aware  of  friendly  thoughts  toward 
it.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  set  out  a  few  big  fish  on 
the  spot  where  he  had  first  seen  it  sitting  the  previous  night. 
"If  he  comes,"  he  thought,  "he  is  welcome  to  them.  I  've 
got  plenty,  anyway."    He  thought  of  it  now  as  "he." 

Yet  the  wolf  made  no  appearance  until  he  was  in  the 
act  of  entering  his  tent  a  good  deal  later.  It  was  close 
on  ten  o'clock,  whereas  nine  was  his  hour,  and  late  at  that, 
for  turning  in.  He  had,  therefore,  unconsciously  been  wait- 
ing for  him.  Then,  as  he  was  closing  the  flap,  he  saw  the 
eyes  close  to  where  he  had  placed  the  fish.  He  waited,  hiding 
himself,  and  expecting  to  hear  sounds  of  munching  jaws; 
but  all  was  silence.  Only  the  eyes  glowed  steadily  out  of  the 
background  of  pitch  darkness.  He  closed  the  flap.  He 
had  no  slightest  fear.     In  ten  minutes  he  was  sound  asleep. 

He  could  not  have  slept  very  long,  for  when  he  woke  up 
he  could  see  the  shine  of  a  faint  red  light  through  the  canvas, 
and  the  fire  had  not  died  down  completely.  He  rose  and 
cautiously  peeped  out.  The  air  was  very  cold;  he  saw  his 
breath.    But  he  also  saw  the  wolf,  for  it  had  come  in,  and 


68  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

was  sitting  by  the  dying  embers,  not  two  yards  away  from 
where  he  crouched  behind  the  flap.  And  this  time,  at  these 
very  close  quarters,  there  was  something  in  the  attitude  of 
the  big  wild  thing  that  caught  his  attention  with  a  vivid 
thrill  of  startled  surprise  and  a  sudden  shock  of  cold  that 
held  him  spellbound.  He  stared,  unable  to  believe  his  eyes; 
for  the  wolf's  attitude  conveyed  to  him  something  familiar 
that  at  first  he  was  unable  to  explain.  Its  pose  reached  him 
in  the  terms  of  another  thing  with  which  he  was  entirely  at 
home.  What  was  it?  Did  his  senses  betray  him?  Was  he 
still  asleep  and  dreaming? 

Then,  suddenly,  with  a  start  of  uncanny  recognition,  he 
knew.  Its  attitude  was  that  of  a  dog.  Having  found  the 
clue,  his  mind  then  made  an  awful  leap.  For  it  was,  after 
all,  no  dog  its  appearance  aped,  but  something  nearer  to 
himself,  and  more  familiar  still.  Good  heavens !  It  sat  there 
with  the  pose,  the  attitude,  the  gesture  in  repose  of  some- 
thing almost  human.  And  then,  with  a  second  shock  of 
biting  wonder,  it  came  to  him  like  a  revelation.  The  wolf 
sat  beside  that  camp-fire  as  a  man  might  sit. 

Before  he  could  weigh  his  extraordinary  discovery,  before 
he  could  examine  it  in  detail  or  with  care,  the  animal,  sitting 
in  this  ghastly  fashion,  seemed  to  feel  his  eyes  fixed  on  it.  It 
slowly  turned  and  looked  him  in  the  face,  and  for  the  first 
time  Hyde  felt  a  full-blooded,  superstitious  fear  flood  through 
his  entire  being.  He  seemed  transfixed  with  that  nameless 
terror  that  is  said  to  attack  human  beings  who  suddenly  face 
the  dead,  finding  themselves  bereft  of  speech  and  move- 
ment. This  moment  of  paralysis  certainly  occurred.  Its 
passing,  however,  was  as  singular  as  its  advent.  For  almost 
at  once  he  was  aware  of  something  beyond  and  above  this 
mockery  of  human  attitude  and  pose,  something  that  ran 
along  unaccustomed  nerves  and  reached  his  feeling,  even 
perhaps  his  heart.  The  revulsion  was  extraordinary,  its  re- 
sult still  more  extraordinary  and  unexpected.  Yet  the  fact 
remains.  He  was  aware  of  another  thing  that  had  the  effect 
of  stilling  his  terror  as  soon  as  it  was  born.  He  was  aware 
of  appeal,  silent,  half -expressed,  yet  vastly  pathetic.    He  saw 


RUNNING  WOLF  69 

in  the  savage  eyes  a  beseeching,  even  a  yearning,  expression 
that  changed  his  mood  as  by  magic  from  dread  to  natural 
sympathy.  The  great  gray  brute,  symbol  of  cruel  ferocity, 
sat  there  beside  his  dying  fire  and  appealed  for  help. 

This  gulf  betwixt  animal  and  human  seemed  in  that  in- 
stant bridged.  It  was,  of  course,  incredible.  Hyde,  sleep  still 
possibly  clinging  to  his  inner  being  with  the  shades  and 
half-shapes  of  dream  yet  about  his  soul,  acknowledged,  how 
he  knew  not,  the  amazing  fact.  He  found  himself  nodding  to 
the  brute  in  half-consent,  and  instantly,  without  more  ado, 
the  lean  gray  shape  rose  like  a  wraith  and  trotted  off  swiftly, 
but  with  stealthy  tread  into  the  background  of  the  night. 

When  Hyde  woke  in  the  morning  his  first  impression  was 
that  he  must  have  dreamed  the  entire  incident.  His  prac- 
tical nature  asserted  itself.  There  was  a  bite  in  the  fresh 
autumn  air;  the  bright  sun  allowed  no  half-lights  anywhere; 
he  felt  brisk  in  mind  and  body.  Reviewing  what  had  hap- 
pened, he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  utterly  vain 
to  speculate;  no  possible  explanation  of  the  animal's  behavior 
occurred  to  him :  he  was  dealing  with  something  entirely 
outside  his  experience.  His  fear,  however,  had  completely 
left  him.  The  odd  sense  of  friendliness  remained.  The  beast 
had  a  definite  purpose,  and  he  himself  was  included  in  that 
purpose.    His  sympathy  held  good. 

But  with  the  sympathy  there  was  also  an  intense  curiosity. 
"If  it  shows  itself  again,"  he  told  himself,  "I  '11  go  up 
close  and  find  out  what  it  wants."  The  fish  laid  out  the 
night  before  had  not  been  touched. 

It  must  have  been  a  full  hour  after  breakfast  when  he 
next  saw  the  brute ;  it  was  standing  on  the  edge  of  the 
clearing,  looking  at  him  in  the  way  now  become  familiar. 
Hyde  immediately  picked  up  his  ax  and  advanced  toward 
it  boldly,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  straight  upon  its  own.  There 
was  nervousness  in  him,  but  kept  well  under;  nothing  be- 
trayed it;  step  by  step  he  drew  nearer  until  some  ten  yards 
separated  them.  The  wolf  had  not  stirred  a  muscle  as  yet. 
Its  jaws  hung  open,  its  eyes  observed  him  intently;  it  al- 
lowed him  to  approach  without  a  sign  of  what  its  mood  might 


70  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

be.  Then,  with  these  ten  yards  between  them,  it  turned 
abruptly  and  moved  slowly  off,  looking  back  first  over  one 
shoulder  and  then  over  the  other,  exactly  as  a  dog  might 
do,  to  see  if  he  was  following. 

A  singular  journey  it  was  they  then  made  together,  animal 
and  man.  The  trees  surrounded  them  at  once,  for  they  left 
the  lake  behind  them,  entering  the  tangled  bush  beyond. 
The  beast,  Hyde  noticed,  obviously  picked  the  easiest  track 
for  him  to  follow;  for  obstacles  that  meant  nothing  to  the 
four-legged  expert,  yet  were  difficult  for  a  man,  were  care- 
fully avoided  with  an  almost  uncanny  skill,  while  yet  the 
general  direction  was  accurately  kept.  Occasionally  there 
were  windfalls  to  be  surmounted;  but  though  the  wolf 
bounded  over  these  with  ease,  it  was  always  waiting  for  the 
man  on  the  other  side  after  he  had  laboriously  climbed  over. 
Deeper  and  deeper  into  the  heart  of  the  lonely  forest  they 
penetrated  in  this  singular  fashion,  cutting  across  the  arc 
of  the  lake 's  crescent,  it  seemed  to  Hyde ;  for  after  two  miles 
or  so,  he  recognized  the  big  rocky  bluff  that  overhung  the 
water  at  its  northern  end.  This  outstanding  bluff  he  had 
seen  from  his  camp,  one  side  of  it  falling  sheer  into  the  water ; 
it  was  probably  the  spot,  he  imagined,  where  the  Indians 
held  their  medicine-making  ceremonies,  for  it  stood  out  in 
isolated  fashion,  and  its  top  formed  a  private  plateau  not 
easy  of  access.  And  it  was  here,  close  to  a  big  spruce  at 
the  foot  of  the  bluff  upon  the  forest  side,  that  the  wolf 
stopped  suddenly  and  for  the  first  time  since  its  appear- 
ance gave  audible  expression  to  its  feelings.  It  sat  down 
on  its  haunches,  lifted  its  muzzle  with  open  jaws,  and  gave 
vent  to  a  subdued  and  long-drawn  howl  that  was  more  like 
the  wail  of  a  dog  than  the  fierce  barking  cry  associated  with 
a  wolf. 

By  this  time  Hyde  had  lost  not  only  fear,  but  caution,  too; 
nor,  oddly  enough,  did  this  warning  howl  revive  a  sign  of 
unwelcome  emotion  in  him.  In  that  curious  sound  he  de- 
tected the  same  message  that  the  eyes  conveyed — appeal  for 
help.  He  paused,  nevertheless,  a  little  startled,  and  while 
the  wolf  sat  waiting  for  him,  he  looked  about  him  quickly. 


BUNNING  WOLF  71 

There  was  young  timber  here;  it  had  once  been  a  small 
clearing,  evidently.  Ax  and  fire  had  done  their  work,  but 
there  was  evidence  to  an  experienced  eye  that  it  was  Indians 
and  not  white  men  who  had  once  been  busy  here.  Some 
part  of  the  medicine  ritual,  doubtless,  took  place  in  the  little 
clearing,  thought  the  man,  as  he  advanced  again  toward  his 
patient  leader.  The  end  of  their  queer  journey,  he  felt,  was 
close  at  hand. 

He  had  not  taken  two  steps  before  the  animal  got  up  and 
moved  very  slowly  in  the  direction  of  some  low  bushes  that 
formed  a  clump  just  beyond.  It  entered  these,  first  looking 
back  to  make  sure  that  its  companion  watched.  The  bushes 
hid  it ;  a  moment  later  it  emerged  again.  Twice  it  performed 
this  pantomime,  each  time,  as  it  reappeared,  standing  still  and 
staring  at  the  man  with  as  distinct  an  expression  of  appeal 
in  the  eyes  as  an  animal  may  compass,  probably.  Its  ex- 
citement, meanwhile,  certainly  increased,  and  this  excitement 
was,  with  equal  certainty,  communicated  to  the  man.  Hyde 
made  up  his  mind  quickly.  Gripping  his  ax  tightly,  and 
ready  to  use  it  at  the  first  hint  of  malice,  he  moved  slowly 
nearer  to  the  bushes,  wondering  with  something  of  a  tremor 
what  would  happen. 

If  he  expected  to  be  startled,  his  expectation  was  at  once 
fulfilled ;  but  it  was  the  behavior  of  the  beast  that  made  him 
jump.  It  positively  frisked  about  him  like  a  happy  dog. 
It  frisked  for  joy.  Its  excitement  was  intense,  yet  from 
its  open  mouth  no  sound  was  audible.  With  a  sudden  leap, 
then,  it  bounded  past  him  into  the  clump  of  bushes,  against 
Whose  very  edge  he  stood  and  began  scraping  vigorously  at 
the  ground.  Hyde  stood  and  stared,  amazement  and  in- 
terest now  banishing  all  his  nervousness,  even  when  the 
beast,  in  its  violent  scraping,  actually  touched  his  body 
with  its  own.  He  had,  perhaps,  the  feeling  that  he  was 
in  a  dream,  one  of  those  fantastic  dreams  in  which  things 
may  happen  without  involving  an  adequate  surprise ;  for 
otherwise  the  manner  of  scraping  and  scratching  at  the 
ground  must  have  seemed  an  impossible  phenomenon.  No 
wolf,  no  dog  certainly,  used  its  paws  in  the  way  those  paws 


72  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

were  working.  Hyde  had  the  odd,  distressing  sensation 
that  it  was  hands,  not  paws,  he  watched.  And  yet,  somehow, 
the  natural,  adequate  surprise  he  should  have  felt,  was  absent. 
The  strange  action  seemed  not  entirely  unnatural.  In  his 
heart  some  deep  hidden  spring  of  sympathy  and  pity  stirred 
instead.    He  was  aware  of  pathos. 

The  wolf  stopped  in  its  task  and  looked  up  into  his  face. 
Hyde  acted  without  hesitation  then.  Afterward  he  was 
wholly  at  a  loss  to  explain  his  own  conduct.  It  seemed  he 
knew  what  to  do,  divined  what  was  asked,  expected  of  him. 
Between  his  mind  and  the  dumb  desire  yearning  through 
the  savage  animal  there  was  intelligent  and  intelligible  com- 
munication. He  cut  a  stake  and  sharpened  it,  for  the  stones 
would  blunt  his  ax-edge.  He  entered  the  clump  of  bushes 
to  complete  the  digging  his  four-legged  companion  had  be- 
gun. And  while  he  worked,  though  he  did  not  forget  the 
close  proximity  of  the  wolf,  he  paid  no  attention  to  it;  often 
his  back  was  turned  as  he  stooped  over  the  laborious  clear- 
ing away  of  the  hard  earth ;  no  uneasiness  or  sense  of  danger 
was  in  him  any  more.  The  wolf  sat  outside  the  clump  and 
watched  the  operations.  Its  concentrated  attention,  its  pa- 
tience, its  intense  eagerness,  the  gentleness  and  docility  of 
the  gray,  fierce,  and  probably  hungry  brute,  its  obvious 
pleasure  and  satisfaction,  too,  at  having  won  the  human  to 
its  mysterious  purpose — these  were  colors  in  the  strange  pic- 
ture that  Hyde  thought  of  later  when  dealing  with  the  human 
herd  in  his  hotel  again.  At  the  moment  he  was  aware  chiefly 
of  pathos  and  affection.  The  whole  business  was,  of  course, 
not  to  be  believed,  but  that  discovery  came  later,  too,  when 
telling  it  to  others. 

The  digging  continued  for  fully  half  an  hour  before  his 
labor  was  rewarded  by  the  discovery  of  a  small  whitish  object. 
He  picked  it  up  and  examined  it — the  finger-bone  of  a  man. 
Other  discoveries  then  followed  quickly  and  in  quantity.  The 
cache  was  laid  bare.  He  collected  nearly  the  complete  skele- 
ton. The  skull,  however,  he  found  last,  and  might  not  have 
found  at  all  but  for  the  guidance  of  his  strangely  alert  com- 
panion.    It  lay  some  few  yards  away  from  the  central  hole 


RUNNING  WOLF  73 

now  dug,  and  the  wolf  stood  nuzzling  the  ground  with  its  nose 
before  Hyde  understood  that  he  was  meant  to  dig  exactly 
in  that  spot  for  it.  Between  the  beast's  very  paws  his 
stake  struck  hard  upon  it.  He  scraped  the  earth  from  the 
bone  and  examined  it  carefully.  It  was  perfect,  save  for 
the  fact  that  some  wild  animal  had  gnawed  it,  the  teeth- 
marks  being  still  plainly  visible.  Close  beside  it  lay  the  rusty 
iron  head  of  a  tomahawk.  This  and  the  smallness  of  the  bones 
confirmed  him  in  his  judgment  that  it  was  the  skeleton  not  of 
a  white  man,  but  of  an  Indian. 

During  the  excitement  of  the  discovery  of  the  bones  one 
by  one,  and  finally  of  the  skull,  but,  more  especially,  during 
the  period  of  intense  interest  while  Hyde  was  examining 
them,  he  had  paid  little,  if  any,  attention  to  the  wolf.  He 
was  aware  that  it  sat  and  watched  him,  never  moving  its 
keen  eyes  for  a  single  moment  from  the  actual  operations,  but 
of  sign  or  movement  it  made  none  at  all.  He  knew  that  it 
was  pleased  and  satisfied,  he  knew  also  that  he  had  now 
fulfilled  its  purpose  in  a  great  measure.  The  further  in- 
tuition that  now  came  to  him,  derived,  he  felt  positive,  from 
his  companion's  dumb  desire,  was  perhaps  the  cream  of 
the  entire  experience  to  him.  Gathering  the  bones  together 
in  his  coat,  he  carried  them,  together  with  the  tomahawk, 
to  the  foot  of  the  big  spruce  where  the  animal  had  first 
stopped.  His  leg  actually  touched  the  creature's  muzzle  as 
he  passed.  It  turned  its  head  to  watch,  but  did  not  follow, 
nor  did  it  move  a  muscle  while  he  prepared  the  platform 
of  boughs  upon  which  he  then  laid  the  poor  worn  bones 
of  an  Indian  who  had  been  killed,  doubtless,  in  sudden  at- 
tack or  ambush,  and  to  whose  remains  had  been  denied  the 
last  grace  of  proper  tribal  burial.  He  wrapped  the  bones  in 
bark ;  he  laid  the  tomahawk  beside  the  skull ;  he  lit  the  circular 
fire  round  the  pyre,  and  the  blue  smoke  rose  upward  into 
the  clear  bright  sunshine  of  the  Canadian  autumn  morning 
till  it  was  lost  among  the  mighty  trees  far  overhead. 

In  the  moment  before  actually  lighting  the  little  fire 
he  had  turned  to  note  what  his  companion  did.  It  sat  five 
vards  away,  he  saw,  gazing  intently,  and  one  of  its  front 


74  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

paws  was  raised  a  little  from  the  ground.  It  made  no 
sign  of  any  kind.  He  finished  the  work,  becoming  so  absorbed 
in  it  that  he  had  eyes  for  nothing  but  the  tending  and  guard- 
ing of  his  careful  ceremonial  fire.  It  was  only  when  the 
platform  of  boughs  collapsed,  laying  their  charred  burden 
gently  on  the  fragrant  earth  among  the  soft  wood  ashes, 
that  he  turned  again,  as  though  to  show  the  wolf  what 
he  had  done,  and  seek,  perhaps,  some  look  of  satisfaction 
in  its  curiously  expressive  eyes.  But  the  place  he  searched 
was  empty.    The  wolf  had  gone. 

He  did  not  see  it  again;  it  gave  no  sign  of  its  presence 
anywhere;  he  was  not  watched.  He  fished  as  before,  wan- 
dered through  the  bush  about  his  camp,  sat  smoking  round 
his  fire  after  dark,  and  slept  peacefully  in  his  cozy  little 
tent.  He  was  not  disturbed.  No  howl  was  ever  audible  in 
the  distant  forest,  no  twig  snapped  beneath  a  stealthy  tread, 
he  saw  no  eyes.  The  wolf  that  behaved  like  a  man  had  gone 
forever. 

It  was  the  day  before  he  left  that  Hyde,  noticing  smoke 
rising  from  the  shack  across  the  lake,  paddled  over  to 
exchange  a  word  or  two  with  the  Indian,  who  had  evidently 
now  returned.  The  redskin  came  down  to  meet  him  as  he 
landed,  but  it  was  soon  plain  that  he  spoke  very  little  English. 
He  emitted  the  familiar  grunts  at  first ;  then  bit  by  bit  Hyde 
stirred  his  limited  vocabulary  into  action.  The  net  result, 
however,  was  slight  enough,  though  it  was  certainly  direct: 

"You  camp  there?"  the  man  asked,  pointing  to  the  other 
side. 

"Yes." 

"Wolf  come?" 

"Yes." 

"You  see  wolf?" 

"Yes." 

The  Indian  stared  at  him  fixedly  a  moment,  a  keen,  won- 
dering look  upon  his  coppery,  creased  face. 

"You  'fraid  wolf?"  he  asked  after  a  moment's  pause. 

"No,"  replied  Hyde,  truthfully.  He  knew  it  was  use- 
less to  ask  questions  of  his  own,  though  he  was  eager  for 


BUNNING  WOLF  75 

information.  The  other  would  have  told  him  nothing.  It 
was  sheer  luck  that  the  man  had  touched  on  the  subject 
at  all,  and  Hyde  realized  that  his  own  best  role  was  merely 
to  answer,  but  to  ask  no  questions.  Then,  suddenly,  the 
Indian  became  comparatively  voluble.  There  was  awe  in 
his  voice  and  manner. 

"Him  no  wolf.  Him  big  medicine  wolf.  Him  spirit 
wolf." 

Whereupon  he  drank  the  tea  the  other  had  brewed  for 
him,  closed  his  lips  tightly,  and  said  no  more.  His  out- 
line was  discernible  on  the  shore,  rigid  and  motionless,  an 
hour  later,  when  Hyde's  canoe  turned  the  corner  of  the  lake 
three  miles  away,  and  landed  to  make  the  portages  up  the 
first  rapid  of  his  homeward  stream. 

It  was  Morton  who,  after  some  persuasion,  supplied  further 
details  of  what  he  called  the  legend.  Some  hundred  years 
before,  the  tribe  that  lived  in  the  territory  beyond  the 
lake  began  their  annual  medicine-making  ceremonies  on  the 
big  rocky  bluff  at  the  northern  end;  but  no  medicine  could 
be  made.  The  spirits,  declared  the  chief  medicine  man,  would 
not  answer.  They  were  offended.  An  investigation  followed. 
It  was  discovered  that  a  young  brave  had  recently  killed  a 
wolf,  a  thing  strictly  forbidden,  since  the  wolf  was  the  totem 
animal  of  the  tribe.  To  make  matters  worse,  the  name  of 
the  guilty  man  was  Running  Wolf.  The  offense  being  un- 
pardonable, the  man  was  cursed  and  driven  from  the  tribe: 

"Go  out.  Wander  alone  among  the  woods,  and  if  we  see 
you,  we  slay  you.  Your  bones  shall  be  scattered  in  the  for- 
est, and  your  spirit  shall  not  enter  the  Happy  Hunting 
Grounds  till  one  of  another  race  shall  find  and  bury  them." 

"Which  meant,"  explained  Morton,  laconically,  his  only 
comment  on  the  story,  "probably  forever." 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  Show  that  the  suggestions  of  the  supernatural  rise  with  cumu- 

lative power. 

2.  How  does  the  author  make  the  setting  contribute  to  the  effect 

of  the  story? 


76  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

3.  What  is  the  character  of  the  hero? 

4.  Why  did  the  author  make  the  hero  a  solitary  character? 

5.  Why  is  the  author  so  slow  in  introducing  the  wolf? 

6.  What  is  the  hero's  attitude  toward  the  supernatural? 

7.  How  does  the  hero's  attitude  toward  the  supernatural  affect  the 

reader? 

8.  Point  out  the  various  means  by  which  the  author  makes  the 

story  seem  true. 

9.  What  is  the  character  of  the  wolf? 

10.  Why  does  the  author  hold  the  story  of  the  legend  until  the  last? 

11.  Did  Hyde  believe  the  wolf  was  a  "spirit-wolf"? 

12.  Divide  the  story  into  a  series  of  important  incidents. 

13.  Show  how  style  contributes  to  effect. 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 

1.  The  Haunted  House  11.  The  Dancing  Squirrels 

2.  Mysterious  Footprints  12.  Footsteps  at  Night 

3.  A  Strange  Echo  13.  The  Lost  Cemetery 

4.  Warned  in  Time  14.  The  Woman  in  Black 

5.  A  Haunting  Dream  15.  The  Dead  Patriot 

6.  My  Great-Grandfather  16.  The  Cat  That  Came  Back 

7.  The  Old  Grave  17.  The  Church  Bell 

8.  The  Ruined  Church  18.  The  Old  Battlefield 

9.  Tap!     Tap!     Tap!  19.  The  Indians'  Camp 
10.  Prophetic  Birds  20.  The  Hessian's  Grave 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

If  you  are  to  imitate  Running  Wolf  successfully  you  must  first 
think  of  a  story  of  the  supernatural,  a  simple,  easily-understood 
story  that  will  have  a  foundation  of  fact,  and  that  will  appear  to  be 
reasonable  in  its  use  of  the  supernatural.  Then,  without  introducing 
your  story  immediately,  show  how  a  person  who  knows  nothing  of 
it  takes  part  in  a  series  of  events  that  lead  him  to  understand  the 
story. 

Make  the  setting  of  your  story  one  that  will  contribute  strongly 
to  the  central  effect.  Do  not  give  any  definite  explanation  of  the 
events  that  you  narrate.  Give  your  reader  such  an  abundance  of 
suggestion  that  he  will  be  led  to  infer  a  supernatural  explanation. 

Hold  until  the  last  the  basic  story  on  which  you  found  your  en- 
tire narration. 


THE  BIOGRAPHICAL  ESSAY 
HOW  I  FOUND  AMERICA 

By  ANZIA  YEZIERSKA 

In  1896  Miss  Yezierslca  came  from  PlotzJc  in  Eussian  Poland, 
where  she  was  ~born.  After  hard  experiences  in  a  "sweat 
shop"  she  became  a  teacher  of  cooking.  She  is  the  author  of 
Hungry  Hearts.  Her  dialect  stories,  strongly  realistic  and 
touching,  appear  in  many  magazines. 

An  autobiography  is  a  straightforward  story  of  the  life  of  the  writer. 
An  autobiographical  essay  is  a  meditation  on  the  events  in  one's  own 
life. 

How  I  Found  America  is  an  autobiographical  essay.  It  does  not  tell 
the  story  of  the  writer's  life:  it  tells  the  writer's  thoughts  preceding 
and  after  her  arrival  in  America.  As  in  all  good  essays,  the  subject  is 
much  greater  than  the  writer.  The  meditation  is  purely  personal,  but 
it  stirs  a  response  in  every  thoughtful  reader.  It  asks  and  answers  the 
questions:  "What  do  oppressed  foreigners  think  America  to  be?" 
"What  do  immigrants  find  America  to  be?"  "How  can  we  make 
immigrants  into  the  most  helpful  Americans?" 

The  anecdotes  that  make  the  parts  of  the  essay  are  as  graphic  as  so 
many  bold  drawings.  The  principal  sections  of  the  essay  are  as  distinct 
as  the  chapters  of  a  book.  At  all  times  this  essay  concerns  the  question, 
"What  is  it  to  be  an  American?" 

In  some  respects  this  particular  essay  is  like  a  musical  composition; 
for  it  begins  with  a  sort  of  prelude,  rises  through  a  series  of  movements, 
and  culminates  in  a  triumphant  close,  the  whole  composition  being 
marked  by  the  presence  of  a  strong  motif — the  exaltation  of  the  trua 
spirit  of  America. 

Every  breath  I  drew  was  a  breath  of  fear,  every  shadow 
a  stifling  shock,  every  footfall  struck  on  my  heart  like  the 
heavy  boot  of  the  Cossack.  On  a  low  stool  in  the  middle  of 
the  only  room  in  our  mud  hut  sat  my  father,  his  red  beard 
falling  over  the  Book  of  Isaiah,  open  before  him.  On  the 
tile  stove,  on  the  benches  that  were  our  beds,  even  on  the 
earthen  floor,  sat  the  neighbors'  children,  learning  from  him 
the  ancient  poetry  of  the  Hebrew  race.  As  he  chanted,  the 
children  repeated: 

77 


78  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

The  voice  of  him  that  crieth  in  the  'wilderness, 

Prepare  ye  the  way  of  the  Lord. 

Make  straight  in  the  desert  a  highway  for  our  God. 

Every  valley  shall  be  exalted, 

And  every  mountain  and  hill  shall  be  made  low, 

And  the  crooked  shall  be  made  straight, 

And  the  rough  places  plain, 

And  the  glory  of  God  shall  be  revealed, 

And  all  flesh  shall  see  it  together. 

Undisturbed  by  the  swaying  and  chanting  of  teacher  and 
pupils,  old  Kakah,  our  speckled  hen,  with  her  brood  of 
chicks,  strutted  and  pecked  at  the  potato-peelings  that  fell 
from  my  mother's  lap  as  she  prepared  our  noon  meal. 

I  stood  at  the  window  watching  the  road,  lest  the  Cossack 
come  upon  us  unawares  to  enforce  the  ukase  of  the  czar, 
which  would  tear  the  last  bread  from  our  mouths:  "No 
chadir  [Hebrew  school]  shall  be  held  in  a  room  used  for 
cooking  and  sleeping." 

With  one  eye  I  watched  ravenously  my  mother  cutting 
chunks  of  black  bread.  At  last  the  potatoes  were  ready.  She 
poured  them  out  of  an  iron  pot  into  a  wooden  bowl  and 
placed  them  in  the  center  of  the  table. 

Instantly  the  swaying  and  chanting  ceased.  The  children 
rushed  forward.  The  fear  of  the  Cossack  was  swept  away 
from  my  heart  by  the  fear  that  the  children  would  get  my 
potato,  and  deserting  my  post,  with  a  shout  of  joy  I  seized 
my  portion  and  bit  a  huge  mouthful  of  mealy  delight. 

At  that  moment  the  door  was  driven  open  by  the  blow 
of  an  iron  heel.  The  Cossack's  whip  swished  through  the  air. 
Screaming,  we  scattered.  The  children  ran  out — our  liveli- 
hood with  them. 

"Oi  well!"  wailed  my  mother,  clutching  at  her  breast, 
"is  there  a  God  over  us  and  sees  all  this?" 

With  grief-glazed  eyes  my  father  muttered  a  broken  prayer 
as  the  Cossack  thundered  the  ukase :  "A  thousand-ruble  fine, 
or  a  year  in  prison,  if  you  are  ever  found  again  teaching 
children  where  you  're  eating  and  sleeping." 

"Gottunicu!"  then  pleaded  my  mother,  "would  you  tear 
the  last  skin   from  our  bones?     Where  else  should  we  be 


HOW  I  FOUND  AMERICA  79 

eating  and  sleeping?  Or  should  we  keep  chaMr  in  the  middle 
of  the  road?  Have  we  houses  with  separate  rooms  like 
the  czar?" 

Ignoring  my  mother's  protests,  the  Cossack  strode  out  of 
the  hut.  My  father  sank  into  a  chair,  his  head  bowed  in 
the  silent  grief  of  the  helpless. 

My  mother  wrung  her  hands. 

"God  from  the  world,  is  there  no  end  to  our  troubles? 
When  will  the  earth  cover  me  and  my  woes?" 

I  watched  the  Cossack  disappear  down  the  road.  All 
at  once  I  saw  the  whole  village  running  toward  us.  I 
dragged  my  mother  to  the  window  to  see  the  approaching 
crowd. 

"Gevalt!  what  more  is  falling  over  our  heads?"  she  cried 
in  alarm. 

Masheh  Mindel,  the  water-carrier's  wife,  headed  a  wild 
procession.  The  baker,  the  butcher,  the  shoemaker,  the  tailor, 
the  goatherd,  the  workers  in  the  fields,  with  their  wives  and 
children  pressed  toward  us  through  a  cloud  of  dust. 

Masheh  Mindel,  almost  fainting,  fell  in  front  of  the  door- 
way. 

"A  letter  from  America!"  she  gasped. 

"A  letter  from  America!"  echoed  the  crowd  as  they 
snatched  the  letter  from  her  and  thrust  it  into  my  father's 
hands. 

"Read,  read!"  they  shouted  tumultuously. 

My  father  looked  through  the  letter,  his  lips  uttering  no 
sound.  In  breathless  suspense  the  crowd  gazed  at  him.  Their 
eyes  shone  with  wonder  and  reverence  for  the  only  man  in 
the  village  who  could  read.  Masheh  Mindel  crouched  at  his 
feet,  her  neck  stretched  toward  him  to  catch  each  precious 
word  of  the  letter. 

To  my  worthy  wife,  Masheh  Mindel,  and  to  my  loving  son,  Sushkah 
Feivel,  and  to  my  darling  daughter,  the  apple  of  my  eye,  the  pride  of 
my  life,  Tzipkeleh! 

Long  years  and  good  luck  on  you!  May  the  blessings  from  heaven 
fall  over  your  beloved  heads  and  save  you  from  all  harm! 

First  I  come  to  tell  you  that  I  am  well  and  in  good  health.  May  I 
bear  the  same  from  you! 


80  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

Secondly,  I  am  telling  you  that  my  sun  is  beginning  to  shine  in 
America.  I  am  becoming  a  person — a  business  man.  I  have  for  myself 
a  stand  in  the  most  crowded  part  of  America,  where  people  are  as  thick 
as  flies  and  every  day  is  like  market-day  at  a  fair.  My  business  is 
from  bananas  and  apples.  The  day  begins  with  my  push-cart  full  of 
fruit,  and  the  day  never  ends  before  I  can  count  up  at  least  two  dollars' 
profit.  That  means  four  rubles.  Stand  before  your  eyes,  I,  Gedalyah 
Mindel,  four  rubles  a  day;  twenty-four  rubles  a  week! 

"Gedalyah  Mindel,  the  water-carrier,  twenty-four  rubles 
a  week!"    The  words  leaped  like  fire  in  the  air. 

We  gazed  at  his  wife,  Masheh  Mindel,  a  dried-out  bone  of 
a  woman. 

"Masheh  Mindel,  with  a  husband  in  America,  Masheh 
Mindel  the  wife  of  a  man  earning  twenty-four  rubles  a 
week!     The  sky  is  falling  to  the  earth!" 

"We  looked  at  her  with  new  reverence.  Already  she  was 
a  being  from  another  world.  The  dead,  sunken  eyes  became 
alive  with  light.  The  worry  for  bread  that  had  tightened 
the  skin  of  her  cheek-bones  was  gone.  The  sudden  surge 
of  happiness  filled  out  her  features,  flushing  her  face  as 
with  wine.  The  two  starved  children  clinging  to  her  skirts, 
dazed  with  excitement,  only  dimly  realized  their  good  for- 
tune in  the  envious  glances  of  the  others.  But  the  letter 
went  on: 

Thirdly,  I  come  to  tell  you,  white  bread  and  meat  I  eat  every  day, 
just  like  the  millionaires.  Fourthly,  I  have  to  tell  you  that  I  am  no 
more  Gedalyah  Mindel.  Mister  Mindel  they  call  me  in  America. 
Fifthly,  Masheh  Mindel  and  my  dear  children,  in  America  there  are  no 
mud  huts  where  cows  and  chickens  and  people  live  all  together.  I  have 
for  myself  a  separate  room,  with  a  closed  door,  and  before  any  one  can 
come  to  me,  he  must  knock,  and  I  can  say,  "Come  in,"  or  "Stay  out," 
like  a  king  in  a  palace.  Lastly,  my  darling  family  and  people  of  the 
village  of  Sukovoly,  there  is  no  czar  in  America. 

My  father  paused.  The  hush  was  stifling.  "No  czar — 
no  czar  in  America!"  Even  the  little  babies  repeated  the 
chant,  ' '  No  czar  in  America ! : 


>  > 


In  America  they  ask  everybody  who  should  be  the  President.  And  I, 
Gedalyah  Mindel,  when  I  take  out  my  citizen 's  papers,  will  have  as 
much  to  say  who  shall  be  our  next  President  as  Mr.  Rockefeller,  the 


HOW  I  FOUND  AMERICA  81 

greatest  millionaire.  Fifty  rubles  I  am  sending  you  for  your  ship- 
ticket  to  America.  And  may  all  Jews  who  suffer  in  Golluth  from 
ukases  and  pogroms  live  yet  to  lift  up  their  heads  like  me,  Gedalyah 
Mindel,  in  America. 

Fifty  rubles!  A  ship-ticket  to  America!  That  so  much 
good  luck  should  fall  on  one  head!  A  savage  envy  bit  us. 
Gloomy  darts  from  narrowed  eyes  stabbed  Masheh  Mindel. 
Why  should  not  we,  too,  have  a  chance  to  get  away  from 
this  dark  land!  Has  not  every  heart  the  same  hunger  for 
America,  the  same  longing  to  live  and  laugh  and  breathe 
like  a  free  human  being?  America  is  for  all.  Why  should 
only  Masheh  Mindel  and  her  children  have  a  chance  to  the 
New  World? 

Murmuring  and  gesticulating,  the  crowd  dispersed.  Every 
one  knew  every  one  else's  thought — how  to  get  to  America. 
What  could  they  pawn?  From  where  could  they  borrow  for 
a  ship-ticket? 

Silently,  we  followed  my  father  back  into  the  hut  from 
which  the  Cossack  had  driven  us  a  while  before.  We  chil- 
dren looked  from  mother  to  father  and  from  father  to 
mother. 

"Gottunieu!  the  czar  himself  is  pushing  us  to  America  by 
this  last  ukase."  My  mother's  face  lighted  up  the  hut  like 
a  lamp. 

"Meshugeneh  Yideneh!"  admonished  my  father.  "Always 
your  head  in  the  air.  What — where — America?  With  what 
money?    Can  dead  people  lift  themselves  up  to  dance?" 

"Dance?"  The  samovar  and  the  brass  pots  reechoed  my 
mother's  laughter.  "I  could  dance  myself  over  the  waves 
of  the  ocean  to  America." 

In  amazed  delight  at  my  mother's  joy,  we  children  rippled 
and  chuckled  with  her.  My  father  paced  the  room,  his 
face  dark  with  dread  for  the  morrow. 

"Empty  hands,  empty  pockets;  yet  it  dreams  itself  in 
you — America,"  he  said. 

"Who  is  poor  who  has  hopes  on  America?"  flaunted  my 
mother. 

"Sell  my  red-quilted  petticoat  that  grandmother  left  for 
my  dowry,"  I  urged  in  excitement. 


82  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

"Sell  the  feather-beds,  sell  the  samovar,"  chorused  the 
children. 

"Sure,  we  can  sell  everything — the  goat  and  all  the  win- 
ter things,"  added  my  mother.  "It  must  be  always  summer 
in  America." 

I  flung  my  arms  around  my  brother,  and  he  seized  Bessie 
by  the  curls,  and  we  danced  about  the  room,  crazy  with 
joy. 

"Beggars!"  said  my  laughing  mother.  "Why  are  you 
so  happy  with  yourselves?  How  will  you  go  to  America 
without  a  shirt  on  your  back,  without  shoes  on  your  feet?,! 

But  we  ran  out  into  the  road,  shouting  and  singing: 

"We  '11  sell  everything  we  got;  we  're  going  to  America. 
White  bread  and  meat  we  '11  eat  every  day  in  America,  in 
America!" 

That  very  evening  we  brought  Berel  Zalman,  the  usurer, 
and  showed  him  all  our  treasures,  piled  up  in  the  middle  of 
the  hut. 

"Look!  All  these  fine  feather-beds,  Berel  Zalman!"  urged 
my  mother.  ' '  This  grand  fur  coat  came  from  Nijny  *  itself. 
My  grandfather  bought  it  at  the  fair." 

I  held  up  my  red-quilted  petticoat,  the  supreme  saorifice 
of  my  ten-year-old  life.  Even  my  father  shyly  pushed  for- 
ward the  samovar. 

"It  can  hold  enough  tea  for  the  whole  village,"  he  de- 
clared. 

"Only  a  hundred  rubles  for  them  all!"  pleaded  my  mother, 
"only  enough  to  lift  us  to  America!  Only  one  hundred 
little  rubles!" 

"A  hundred  rubles!  Pfui!"  sniffed  the  pawnbroker. 
"Forty  is  overpaid.    Not  even  thirty  is  it  worth." 

But,  coaxing  and  cajoling,  my  mother  got  a  hundred 
rubles  out  of  him. 

Steerage,  dirty  bundles,  foul  odors,  seasick  humanity; 
but  I  saw  and  heard  nothing  of  the  foulness  and  ugliness 

1  Nijny-Novgorood.  A  Russian  city  on  the  Volga,  the  scene  of  a  great 
annual  fair. 


HOW  I  FOUND  AMERICA  83 

about  me.  I  floated  in  showers  of  sunshine ;  visions  upon 
visions  of  the  New  World  opened  before  me.  From  lip  to 
lip  flowed  the  golden  legend  of  the  golden  country: 

"In  America  you  can  say  what  you  feel,  you  can  voice 
your  thoughts  in  the  open  streets  without  fear  of  a  Cos- 
sack. ' ' 

"In  America  is  a  home  for  everybody.  The  land  is  your 
land,  not,  as  in  Russia,  where  you  feel  yourself  a  stranger 
in  the  village  where  you  were  born  and  reared,  the  village 
in  which  your  father  and  grandfather  lie  buried." 

"Everybody  is  with  everybody  alike  in  America.  Chris- 
tians and  Jews  are  brothers  together." 

"An  end  to  the  worry  for  bread,  an  end  to  the  fear  of 
the  bosses  over  you.  Everybody  can  do  what  he  wants 
with  his  life  in  America." 

"There  are  no  high  or  low  in  America.  Even  the  Presi- 
dent holds  hands  with  Gedalyah  Mindel." 

"Plenty  for  all.  Learning  flows  free,  like  milk  and 
honey." 

"Learning  flows  free."  The  words  painted  pictures  in 
my  mind.  I  saw  before  me  free  schools,  free  colleges,  free 
libraries,  where  I  could  learn  and  learn  and  keep  on  learn- 
ing. In  our  village  was  a  school,  but  only  for  Christian 
children.  In  the  schools  of  America  I  'd  lift  up  my  head 
and  laugh  and  dance,  a  child  with  other  children.  Like  a 
bird  in  the  air,  from  sky  to  sky,  from  star  to  star,  I  'd  soar 
and  soar. 

"Land!  land!"  came  the  joyous  shout.  All  crowded  and 
pushed  on  deck.  They  strained  and  stretched  to  get  the 
first  glimpse  of  the  "golden  country,"  lifting  their  children 
on  their  shoulders  that  they  might  see  beyond  them.  Men 
fell  on  their  knees  to  pray.  Women  hugged  their  babies 
and  wept.  Children  danced.  Strangers  embraced  and  kissed 
like  old  friends.  Old  men  and  old  women  had  in  their  eyes 
a  look  of  young  people  in  love.  Age-old  visions  sang  them- 
selves in  me,  songs  of  freedom  of  an  oppressed  people.  Amer-. 
ica !     America ! 

Between  buildings  that  loomed  like  mountains  we  strugv 


84  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

gled  with  our  bundles,  spreading  around  us  the  smell  of 
the  steerage.  Up  Broadway,  under  the  bridge,  and  through 
the  swarming  streets  of  the  Ghetto,  we  followed  Gedalyah 
Mindel. 

I  looked  about  the  narrow  streets  of  squeezed-in  stores 
and  houses,  ragged  clothes,  dirty  bedding  oozing  out  of  the 
windows,  ash-cans  and  garbage-cans  cluttering  the  sidewalks. 
A  vague  sadness  pressed  down  my  heart,  the  first  doubt  of 
America. 

"Where  are  the  green  fields  and  open  spaces  in  America?'* 
cried  my  heart.  "Where  is  the  golden  country  of  my 
dreams?"  A  loneliness  for  the  fragrant  silence  of  the 
woods  that  lay  beyond  our  mud  hut  welled  up  in  my  heart, 
a  longing  for  the  soft,  responsive  earth  of  our  village  streets. 
All  about  me  was  the  hardness  of  brick  and  stone,  the  smellsi 
of  crowded  poverty. 

"Here  's  your  house,  with  separate  rooms  like  a  palace, 'r 
said  Gedalyah  Mindel,  and  flung  open  the  door  of  a  dingy, 
airless  flat. 

" Oi  weh!"  cried  my  mother  in  dismay.  "Where  's  the 
sunshine  in  America?"  She  went  to  the  window  and  looked 
out  at  the  blank  wall  of  the  next  house.  "Gottunieu!  Like 
in  a  grave  so  dark!" 

' '  It  ain  't  so  dark ;  it  's  only  a  little  shady, ' '  said  Gedalyah 
Mindel,  and  lighted  the  gas.  "Look  only!" — he  pointed 
with  pride  to  the  dim  gas-light — "No  candles,  no  kerosene 
lamps,  in  America.  You  turn  on  a  screw,  and  put  to  it  a 
match,  and  you  got  it  light  like  with  sunshine." 

Again  the  shadow  fell  over  me,  again  the  doubt  of  America. 
In  America  were  rooms  without  sunlight;  rooms  to  sleep 
in,  to  eat  in,  to  cook  in,  but  without  sunshine,  and  Gedalyah 
Mindel  was  happy.  Could  I  be  satisfied  with  just  a  place  to 
sleep  in  and  eat  in,  and  a  door  to  shut  people  out,  to  take 
the  place  of  sunlight?  Or  would  I  always  need  the  sunlight 
to  be  happy?  And  where  was  there  a  place  in  America  for 
me  to  play?  I  looked  out  into  the  alley  below,  and  saw 
pale-faced  children  scrambling  in  the  gutter.  "Where  is 
America?"  cried  my  heart. 


HOW  I  FOUND  AMEEICA  85 

My  eyes  were  shutting  themselves  with  sleep.  Blindly  I 
felt  for  the  buttons  on  my  dress ;  and  buttoning,  I  sank  back 
in  sleep  again — the  dead-weight  sleep  of  utter  exhaustion. 

"Heart  of  mine,"  my  mother's  voice  moaned  above  me, 
"father  is  already  gone  an  hour.  You  know  how  they  '11 
squeeze  from  you  a  nickel  for  every  minute  you  're  late. 
Quick  only!" 

I  seized  my  bread  and  herring  and  tumbled  down  the 
stairs  and  out  into  the  street.  I  ate  running,  blindly  press- 
ing through  the  hurrying  throngs  of  workers,  my  haste 
and  fear  choking  every  mouthful.  I  felt  a  strangling  in 
my  throat  as  I  neared  the  sweat-shop  prison ;  all  my  nerves 
screwed  together  into  iron  hardness  to  endure  the  day's 
torture. 

For  an  instant  I  hesitated  as  I  faced  the  grated  windows 
of  the  old  building.  Dirt  and  decay  cried  out  from  every 
crumbling  brick.  In  the  maw  of  the  shop  raged  around 
me  the  roar  and  the  clatter,  the  merciless  grind,  of  the  pound- 
ing machines.  Half-maddened,  half-deadened,  I  struggled  to 
think,  to  feel,  to  remember.  What  am  I  ?  Who  am  I  ?  Why 
am  I  here?  I  struggled  in  vain,  bewildered  and  lost  in  a 
whirlpool  of  noise.  "America — America,  where  was  Amer- 
ica?" it  cried  in  my  heart. 

Then  came  the  factory  whistle,  the  slowing  down  of  the 
machines,  the  shout  of  release  hailing  the  noon  hour.  I  woke 
as  from  a  tense  nightmare,  a  weary  waking  to  pain.  In 
the  dark  chaos  of  my  brain  reason  began  to  dawn.  In  my 
stifled  heart  feelings  began  to  pulse.  The  wound  of  my 
wasted  life  began  to  throb  and  ache.  With  my  childhood 
choked  with  drudgery,  must  my  youth,  too,  die  unlived? 

Here  were  the  odor  of  herring  and  garlic,  the  ravenous 
munching  of  food,  laughter  and  loud,  vulgar  jokes.  Was  it 
only  I  who  was  so  wretched?  I  looked  at  those  around  me. 
Were  they  happy  or  only  insensible  to  their  slavery?  How 
could  they  laugh  and  joke?  Why  were  they  not  torn  with 
rebellion  against  this  galling  grind,  the  crushing,  deadening 
movements  of  the  body,  where  only  hands  live,  and  hearts 
and  brains  must  die? 


86  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

I  felt  a  touch  on  my  shoulder  and  looked  up.  It  was 
Yetta  Solomon,  from  the  machine  next  to  mine. 

"Here  's  your  tea." 

I  stared  at  her,  half-hearing. 

"Ain't  you  going  to  eat  nothing?" 

"Oi  weh,  Yetta!  I  can't  stand  it!"  The  cry  broke  from 
me.  ' '  I  did  n  't  come  to  America  to  turn  into  a  machine.  I 
came  to  America  to  make  from  myself  a  person.  Does  Amer- 
ica want  only  my  hands,  only  the  strength  of  my  body,  not 
my  heart,  not  my  feelings,  my  thoughts?" 

"Our  heads  ain't  smart  enough,"  said  Yetta,  practically. 
"We  ain't  been  to  school,  like  the  American-born." 

"What  for  did  I  come  to  America  but  to  go  to  school, 
to  learn,  to  think,  to  make  something  beautiful  from  my 
life?" 

"  'Sh!  'Sh!  The  boss!  the  boss!"  came  the  warning  whis- 
per. 

A  sudden  hush  fell  over  the  shop  as  the  boss  entered.  He 
raised  his  hand.  There  was  breathless  silence.  The  hard,  red 
face  with  the  pig's  eyes  held  us  under  its  sickening  spell. 
Again  I  saw  the  Cossack  and  heard  him  thunder  the  ukase. 
Prepared  for  disaster,  the  girls  paled  as  they  cast  at  one 
another  sidelong,  frightened  glances. 

"Hands,"  he  addressed  us,  fingering  the  gold  watch-chain 
that  spread  across  his  fat  stomach,  "it  's  slack  in  the  other 
trades,  and  I  can  get  plenty  girls  begging  themselves  to  work 
for  half  what  you  're  getting;  only  I  ain't  a  skinner.  I  al- 
ways give  my  hands  a  show  to  earn  their  bread.  From  now 
on  I  '11  give  you  fifty  cents  a  dozen  shirts  instead  of  seventy- 
five,  but  I  '11  give  you  night-work,  so  you  needn't  lose 
nothing."    And  he  was  gone. 

The  stillness  of  death  filled  the  shop.  Every  one  felt  the 
heart  of  the  other  bleed  with  her  own  helplessness.  A  sud- 
den sound  broke  the  silence.  A  woman  sobbed  chokingly. 
It  was  Balah  Rifkin,  a  widow  with  three  children. 

"Oi  weh!" — she  tore  at  her  scrawny  neck, — "the  blood- 
sucker! the  thief!  How  will  I  give  them  to  eat,  my  babies, 
my  hungry  little  lambs!" 


HOW  I  FOUND  AMERICA  87 

J '  Why  do  we  let  him  choke  us  ? " 

"Twenty-five  cents  less  on  a  dozen — how  will  we  be  able 
to  live?" 

"He  tears  the  last  skin  from  our  bones." 

"'Why  didn't  nobody  speak  up  to  him?" 

Something  in  me  forced  me  forward.  I  forgot  for  the 
moment  how  my  whole  family  depended  on  my  job.  I  for- 
got that  my  father  was  out  of  work  and  we  had  received  a 
notice  to  move  for  unpaid  rent.  The  helplessness  of  the 
girls  around  me  drove  me  to  strength. 

"I  '11  go  to  the  boss,"  I  cried,  my  nerves  quivering  with 
fierce  excitement.  "I  '11  tell  him  Balah  Rifkin  has  three 
hungry  mouths  to  feed." 

Pale,  hungry  faces  thrust  themselves  toward  me,  thin, 
knotted  hands  reached  out,  starved  bodies  pressed  close  about 
me. 

' '  Long  years  on  you ! ' '  cried  Balah  Rifkin,  drying  her  eyes 
with  a  corner  of  her  shawl. 

"Tell  him  about  my  old  father  and  me,  his  only  bread- 
giver,"  came  from  Bessie  Sopolsky,  a  gaunt-faced  girl  with 
a  hacking  cough. 

' '  And  I  got  no  father  or  mother,  and  four  of  them  younger 
than  me  hanging  on  my  neck."  Jennie  Feist's  beautiful 
young  face  was  already  scarred  with  the  gray  worries  of  age. 

America,  as  the  oppressed  of  all  lands  have  dreamed  Amer- 
ica to  be,  and  America  as  it  is,  flashed  before  me,  a  banner 
of  fire.  Behind  me  I  felt  masses  pressing,  thousands  of 
immigrants;  thousands  upon  thousands  crushed  by  injustice, 
lifted  me  as  on  wings. 

I  entered  the  boss's  office  without  a  shadow  of  fear.  I 
was  not  I ;  the  wrongs  of  my  people  burned  through  me 
till  I  felt  the  very  flesh  of  my  body  a  living  flame  of  re- 
bellion.   I  faced  the  boss. 

"We  can't  stand  it,"  I  cried.  "Even  as  it  is  we're 
hungry.  Fifty  cents  a  dozen  would  starve  us.  Can  you,  a 
Jew,  tear  the  bread  from  another  Jew's  mouth?" 

"You  fresh  mouth,  you!  Who  are  you  to  learn  me  my 
business  ? ' ' 


88  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

"Weren't  you  yourself  once  a  machine  slave,  your  life 
in  the  hands  of  your  boss?" 

"You  loafer!  Money  for  nothing  you  want!  The  minute 
they  begin  to  talk  English  they  get  flies  in  their  nose.  A 
black  year  on  you,  trouble-maker!  I'll  have  no  smart  heads 
in  my  shop !  Such  freshness !  Out  you  get !  Out  from 
my  shop ! ' ' 

Stunned  and  hopeless,  the  wings  of  my  courage  broken, 
I  groped  my  way  back  to  them — back  to  the  eager,  waiting 
faces,  back  to  the  crushed  hearts  aching  with  mine. 

As  I  opened  the  door,  they  read  our  defeat  in  my  face. 

"Girls," — I  held  out  my  hands, — "he's  fired  me."  My 
voice  died  in  the  silence.  Not  a  girl  stirred.  Their  heads 
only  bent  closer  over  their  machines. 

"Here,  you,  get  yourself  out  of  here!"  the  boss  thundered 
at  me.  "Bessie  Sopolsky  and  you,  Balah  Rifkin,  take  out 
her  machine  into  the  hall.  I  want  no  big-mounted  American- 
erins  in  my  shop." 

Bessie  Sopolsky  and  Balah  Rifkin,  their  eyes  black  with 
tragedy,  carried  out  my  machine.  Not  a  hand  was  held  out 
to  me,  not  a  face  met  mine.  I  felt  them  shrink  from  me  as 
I  passed  them  on  my  way  out. 

In  the  street  I  found  I  was  crying.  The  new  hope  that 
had  flowed  in  me  so  strongly  bled  out  of  my  veins.  A 
moment  before,  our  unity  had  made  me  believe  us  so  strong, 
and  now  I  saw  each  alone,  crushed,  broken.  What  were  they 
all  but  crawling  worms,  servile  grubbers  for  bread? 

And  then  in  the  very  bitterness  of  my  resentment  the 
hardness  broke  in  me.  I  saw  the  girls  through  their  own 
eyes,  as  if  I  were  inside  of  them.  What  else  could  they 
have  done  ?  Was  not  an  immediate  crust  of  bread  for  Balah 
Rifkin 's  children  more  urgent  than  truth,  more  vital  than 
honor?  Could  it  be  that  they  ever  had  dreamed  of  Amer- 
ica as  I  had  dreamed?  Had  their  faith  in  America  wholly 
died  in  them?    Could  my  faith  be  killed  as  theirs  had  been? 

Gasping  from  running,  Yetta  Solomon  flung  her  arms 
around  me. 

"You  golden  heart!    I  sneaked  myself  out  from  the  shop 


HOW  I  FOUND  AMERICA  89 

only  to  tell  you  I  '11  come  to  see  you,  to-night.  I  'd  give 
the  blood  from  under  my  nails  for  you,  only  I  got  to  run  back. 
I  got  to  hold  my  job.    My  mother — " 

I  hardly  saw  or  heard  her.  My  senses  were  stunned  with 
my  defeat.  I  walked  on  in  a  blind  daze,  feeling  that  any 
moment  I  would  drop  in  the  middle  of  the  street  from  sheer 
exhaustion.  Every  hope  I  had  clung  to,  every  human  stay, 
every  reality,  was  torn  from  under  me.  "Was  it  then  only 
a  dream,  a  mirage  of  the  hungry-hearted  people  in  the 
desert  lands  of  oppression,  this  age-old  faith  in  America? 

Again  I  saw  the  mob  of  dusty  villagers  crowding  about 
my  father  as  he  read  the  letter  from  America,  their  eager 
faces  thrust  out,  their  eyes  blazing  with  the  same  hope,  the 
same  faith,  that  had  driven  me  on.  Had  the  starved  villagers 
of  Sukovoly  lifted  above  their  sorrows  a  mere  rainbow  vision 
that  led  them — where?  Where?  To  the  stifling  submission 
of  the  sweat-shop  or  the  desperation  of  the  streets! 

' '  God !  God ! ' '  My  eyes  sought  the  sky,  praying,  ' '  where 
— where  is  America  ? ' ' 

Times  changed.  The  sweat-shop  conditions  that  I  had  lived 
through  had  become  a  relic  of  the  past.  Wages  had  doubled, 
tripled;  they  went  up  higher  and  higher,  and  the  working- 
day  became  shorter  and  shorter.  I  began  to  earn  enough  to 
move  my  family  uptown  into  a  sunny,  airy  flat  with  elec- 
tricity and  telephone  service.  I  even  saved  up  enough  to  buy 
a  phonograph  and  a  piano. 

My  knotted  nerves  relaxed.  At  last  I  had  become  free 
from  the  worry  for  bread  and  rent,  but  I  was  not  happy. 
A  more  restless  discontent  than  ever  before  ate  out  my 
heart.  Freedom  from  stomach  needs  only  intensified  the 
needs  of  my  soul. 

I  ached  and  clamored  for  America.  Higher  wages  and 
shorter  hours  of  work,  mere  physical  comfort,  were  not  yet 
America.  I  had  dreamed  that  America  was  a  place  where 
the  heart  could  grow  big  with  giving.  Though  outwardly 
I  had  become  prosperous,  life  still  forced  me  into  an  ex- 
istence of  mere  getting  and  getting. 


90  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

Ach!  how  I  longed  for  a  friend,  a  real  American  friend, 
some  one  to  whom  I  could  express  the  thoughts  and  feelings 
that  choked  me !  In  the  Bronx,  the  up-town  Ghetto,  I  felt 
myself  farther  away  from  the  spirit  of  America  than  ever 
before.  In  the  East  Side  the  people  had  yet  alive  in  their 
eyes  the  old,  old  dreams  of  America,  the  America  that  would 
release  the  age-old  hunger  to  give;  but  in  the  prosperous 
Bronx  good  eating  and  good  sleeping  replaced  the  spiritual 
need  for  giving.  The  chase  for  dollars  and  diamonds  dead- 
ened the  dreams  that  had  once  brought  them  to  America. 

More  and  more  the  all-consuming  need  for  a  friend  pos- 
sessed me.  In  the  street,  in  the  cars,  in  the  subways,  I 
was  always  seeking,  ceaselessly  seeking  for  eyes,  a  face,  the 
flash  of  a  smile  that  would  be  light  in  my  darkness. 

I  felt  sometimes  that  I  was  only  burning  out  my  heart 
for  a  shadow,  an  echo,  a  wild  dream,  but  I  couldn't  help  it. 
Nothing  was  real  to  me  but  my  hope  of  finding  a  friend. 
America  was  not  America  to  me  unless  I  could  find  an 
American  that  would  make  America  real. 

The  hunger  of  my  heart  drove  me  to  the  night-school. 
Again  my  dream  flamed.  Again  America  beckoned.  In 
the  school  there  would  be  education,  air,  life  for  my  cramped- 
in  spirit.  I  would  learn  to  think,  to  form  the  thoughts  that 
surged  formless  in  me.  I  would  find  the  teacher  that  would 
make  me  articulate. 

I  joined  the  literature  class.  They  were  reading  "The 
De  Coverley  Papers."  Filled  with  insatiate  thirst,  I  drank 
in  every  line  with  the  feeling  that  any  moment  I  would 
get  to  the  fountain-heart  of  revelation.  Night  after  night 
I  read  with  tireless  devotion.  But  of  what?  The  manners 
and  customs  of  the  eighteenth  century,  of  people  two  hun- 
dred years  dead. 

One  evening,  after  a  month's  attendance,  when  the  class 
had  dwindled  from  fifty  to  four,  and  the  teacher  began 
scolding  us  who  were  present  for  those  who  were  absent,. 
my  bitterness  broke. 

"Do  you  know  why  all  the  girls  are  dropping  away  from 
the  class?     It  's  because  they  have  too  much  sense  than  to 


>> 


HOW  I  FOUND  AMERICA  91 

waste  themselves  on  '  The  De  Coverley  Papers. '  Us  four  girls 
are  four  fools.  We  could  learn  more  in  the  streets.  It  's 
dirty  and  wrong,  but  it  's  life.  What  are  '  The  De  Coverley 
Papers'?    Dry  dust  fit  for  the  ash-can." 

"Perhaps  you  had  better  tell  the  principal  your  ideas 
of  the  standard  classics,"  she  scoffed,  white  with  rage. 

"All  right,"  I  snapped,  and  hurried  down  to  the  principal's 
office. 

I  swung  open  the  door. 

"I  just  want  to  tell  you  why  I  'm  leaving.    I- 

" Won't  you  come  in?"  The  principal  rose  and  placed  a 
chair  for  me  near  her  desk.  ' '  Now  tell  me  all. ' '  She  leaned 
forward  with  an  inviting  interest. 

I  looked  up,  and  met  the  steady  gaze  of  eyes  shining  with 
light.  In  a  moment  all  my  anger  fled.  "The  De  Coverley 
Papers"  were  forgotten.  The  warm  friendliness  of  her 
face  held  me  like  a  familiar  dream.  I  couldn't  speak.  It 
was  as  if  the  sky  suddenly  opened  in  my  heart. 

"Do  go  on,"  she  said,  and  gave  me  a  quick  nod.  "I 
want  to  hear." 

The  repression  of  centuries  rushed  out  of  my  heart.  I 
told  her  everything — of  the  mud  hut  in  Sukovoly  where  I 
was  born,  of  the  czar's  pogroms,  of  the  constant  fear  of 
the  Cossack,  of  Gedalyah  Mindel's  letter,  of  our  hopes  in 
coming  to  America,  and  my  search  for  an  American  who 
would  make  America  real. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  came  to  me,"  she  said.  And  after  a 
pause,  "You  can  help  me." 

' '  Help  you  ? "  I  cried.  It  was  the  first  time  that  an  Ameri- 
can suggested  that  I  could  help  her. 

"Yes,  indeed.  I  have  always  wanted  to  know  more  of 
that  mysterious,  vibrant  life — the  immigrant.  You  can  help 
me  know  my  girls.    You  have  so  much  to  give — " 

"Give — that  's  what  I  was  hungering  and  thirsting  all 
these  years — to  give  out  what  's  in  me.  I  was  dying  in  the 
unused  riches  of  my  soul." 

1 '  I  know ;  I  know  just  what  you  mean, ' '  she  said,  putting 
her  hand  on  mine. 


92  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

My  whole  being  seemed  to  change  in  the  warmth  of  her 
comprehension.  "I  have  a  friend,"  it  sang  itself  in  me. 
"I  have  a  friend!" 

"And  you  are  a  born  American?"  I  asked.  There  was 
none  of  that  sure,  all-right  look  of  the  Americans  about  her. 

''Yes,  indeed.  My  mother,  like  so  many  mothers," — and 
her  eyebrows  lifted  humorously  whimsical, — ' '  claims  we  're  de- 
scendants of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  and  liiat  one  of  our  lineal 
ancestors  came  over  in  the  Mayflower." 

''For  all  your  mother's  pride  in  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  you 
yourself  are  as  plain  from  the  heart  as  an  immigrant." 

' '  Were  n  't  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  immigrants  two  hundred 
years  ago?" 

She  took  from  her  desk  a  book  and  read  to  me. 

Then  she  opened  her  arms  to  me,  and  breathlessly  I  felt 
myself  drawn  to  her.  Bonds  seemed  to  burst.  A  suffusion 
of  light  filled  my  being.  Great  choirmgs  lifted  me  in  space. 
I  walked  out  unseeingly. 

All  the  way  home  the  words  she  read  flamed  before  me  i 
"We  go  forth  all  to  seek  America.  And  in  the  seeking  we 
create  her.  In  the  quality  of  our  search  shall  be  the  nature 
of  the  America  that  we  create. ' ' 

So  all  those  lonely  years  of  seeking  and  praying  were  not 
in  vain.  How  glad  I  was  that  I  had  not  stopped  at  the  husk, 
a  good  job,  a  good  living!  Through  my  inarticulate  grop- 
ing and  reaching  out  I  had  found  the  soul,  the  spirit  of 
America. 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  What  is  the  effect  of  the  abrupt  beginning:?    Where  else  in  the 

essay  is  abruptness  made  a  means  of  producing  literary  effect? 

2.  Point  out  excellent   use  of  local  color. 

3.  Divide  the  essaj7  into  its  principal  parts. 

4.  Show  that  the  essay  rises  in  power. 

5.  How   does   the   writer   arouse   the   reader's   sympathy   for   the 

characters? 

6.  How  does  the  writer  awaken  the  reader's  patriotism? 

7.  What  opinion  of  America  do  oppressed  foreigners  have?     To 


HOW  I  FOUND  AMERICA  93. 

what  extent  is  their  opinion  well  founded?     To  what  extent 
is  their  opinion  not  well  founded? 

8.  What  impressions  does  a  sea-coast  city  make  upon  immigrants? 

9.  What  sort  of  people  oppress  the  immigrants  after  arrival  in 

America? 

10.  To  what  false  beliefs  is  such  oppression  due? 

11.  What  opportunities  does  America  present? 

12.  What  spirit  should  meet  the  aspirations  of  immigrants? 

13.  What  will  do  most  to  make  immigrants  into  good  Americans? 

14.  Explain  how  the  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  Papers  may  be  taught  so 

that  they  will  apply  to  the  present  as  well  as  to  the  past. 

15.  How  may  we  help  immigrants  to  do  work  that  will  make  them 

into  good  Americans? 

16.  Show   that  the  conclusion  of  the  essay  emphasizes  its  entire 

thought. 

17.  Show  what  rhetorical  methods  are  employed  in  the  essay. 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 

1.  How     I     Became     a     Good    11.  Modernizing  the  De  Coverley 

American  Papers 

2.  An   Immigrant's   Experience  12.  The  Value  of  Sympathy 

3.  The  Meaning  of  Freedom  13.  The  Spirit  of  America 

4.  The  Land  of  Opportunity  14.  Showing  the  Way 

5.  Making  Good  Americans  15.  First  Experiences  in  America 

6.  The   School   and   the   Immi-  16.  Letters  from  People  in  Other 

grant  Lands 

7.  My  Coming  to  America  17.  Being  a  Good  American 

8.  Life  in  the  Crowded  Sections  18.  Enemies  of  America 

9.  Sweat  Shop  Experiences  19.  Uplifting   the   Foreign-Born 
10.  My  Various  Homes  20.  The  America  I  Love 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

Write  down  some  worthy  thought  that  you  have  concerning  Amer- 
ica. Then  write  a  series  of  extremely  personal  incidents  that  will 
show  graphically  how  you  arrived  at  the  thought  you  have  in  mind. 
Make  the  incidents  short,  condensed,  and  highly  emphatic.  Employ 
realistic  characters,  and  give  realistic  quotations  from  their  speech. 
Use  the  incorrect  grammar,  the  slang,  and  the  foreign  words  that 
the  characters  employ  daily.  Arrange  the  incidents  so  that  they 
will  rise  more  and  more  to  your  principal  thought.  Make  your  last 
incident  reveal  that  thought. 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILDHOOD 

By  WILLIAM  HENRY   SHELTON 

{1840 — ).  An  American  patriot  and  author.  He  served  in 
many  battles  in  the  Civil  War,  and  had  thrilling  experiences 
as  a  prisoner  of  war,  escaping  no  less  than  four  times.  He  is 
author  of  A  Man  Without  a  Memory ;  The  Last  Three  Soldiers ; 
The  Three  Prisoners. 

Every  one  has  happy  memories  of  childhood.  He  loves  to  conjure  up 
the  old  familiar  scenes,  the  kindly  people,  and  the  days  that  were  days 
of  wonder. 

The  two  sketches  by  Mr.  Shelton  are  extracts  from  a  long  essay  called 
Our  Village,  in  which  he  recalls  delightfully  all  his  early  surroundings 
and  all  his  old  companionships. 

In  these  extracts,  as  in  the  entire  essay,  Mr.  Shelton  avoids  formal 
autobiography.  He  merely  recalls  the  things  that  impressed  him  most. 
As  far  as  possible  he  lifts  himself  back  into  the  spirit  of  the  past,  and 
sees  once  again,  but  with  added  love,  the  things  that  have  gone  forever. 

My  First  School 

One  day  in  the  summer  when  I  was  four  years  old  I  was 
taken  to  the  village  school  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  below  the 
tavern.  I  have  no  recollection  of  how  I  got  there,  but  my 
return  to  my  grandmother's  was  so  dramatic  that  it  has  im- 
pressed itself  indelibly  on  my  memory.  Perhaps  I  was  taken 
to  school  by  the  sentimental  schoolmistress  herself,  who  was 
a  girl  of  sixteen  and  an  intimate  friend  of  my  aunt,  to 
whom,  in  after  years,  when  she  became  a  famous  novelist, 
she  used  to  send  her  books.  Her  maiden  name  was  Mary  Jane 
Hawes,  but  there  was  a  red-haired,  freckle-faced  boy  in 
one  of  the  pretty  houses  facing  the  side  of  the  church,  who 
went  to  Yale  College  and  gave  her  another  name. 

The  school-house  consisted  of  one  room,  with  an  entry 
without  any  floor  where  the  wood  was  cut  and  stored.  The 
school-room  was  square,  with  a  box-stove  in  the  center.  A 
form  against  the  wall  extended  around  three  sides  of  the 
room,  affording  seats  for  the  larger  pupils,  and  in  front  of 

94 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILDHOOD  95 

these  a  row  of  oak  desks  for  slates  and  books  was  fantastically 
carved  by  generations  of  jack-knives,  and  made  against  the 
backs  of  a  second  row  of  desks  was  a  low  front  form  for  the 
A-B-C  children.  On  the  fourth  side,  flanking  the  door,  were 
a  blackboard  on  one  hand  and  on  the  other  the  schoolma 'am 's 
desk,  usually  decorated  with  a  bunch  of  wild  flowers  or  a  red 
apple,  either  the  gifts  of  a  sincere  admirer  or  the  would-be 
bribe  of  some  trembling  delinquent. 

On  the  occasion  of  my  first  visit  to  the  school  I  wore  a 
blue-and-white  dress  of  muslin-de-laine  that  was  afterward 
made  into  a  cushion  for  a  rocking-chair  in  my  mother's 
parlor.  I  was  evidently  dressed  in  my  very  best  in  honor 
of  the  occasion,  and  all  went  well  until  recess  came.  There 
was  a  rumble  of  thunder,  and  the  sky  had  been  growing 
dark  with  portent  of  storm,  and  the  leaves  and  dust  were 
flying  on  the  wind  when  the  children  were  released  for  play. 
I  wanted  to  do  everything  that  the  other  boys  did,  and  so, 
when  they  scampered  out  with  a  rush,  I  followed  without 
fear.  Just  as  we  came  into  the  open  the  thunder-storm 
burst  upon  us.  The  wind  blew  off  one  boy's  hat  and  whirled 
it  in  the  direction  of  the  village,  and  all  the  other  boys  joined 
in  the  chase.  As  I  started  to  follow  them  a  gust  of  wind 
and  rain  beat  me  to  the  ground,  and  drenched  my  dress 
with  mud  and  water. 

I  was  promptly  rescued  by  the  schoolma 'am  and  taken 
into  the  entry,  where  she  undressed  me  on  the  wood-pile  and 
wrapped  me  in  her  own  woolen  shawl,  which  was  a  black-and- 
red  pattern  of  very  large  squares.  Thus  bundled  up  and 
rendered  quite  helpless  except  as  to  my  lungs,  I  was  laid  on 
the  floor  near  the  stove,  where  I  remained  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  children  until  the  shower  was  over,  when  a 
bushel-basket  was  sent  for  to  the  nearest  house,  which  was 
the  house  of  shoemaker  Talmadge.  Into  this  basket,  com- 
monly used  for  potatoes  and  corn,  I  was  put,  wrapped  in 
the  black-and-red  shawl  and  packed  around  with  my  soiled 
clothes,  and  two  of  the  big  boys,  John  Pierpont  and  John 
Talmadge,  carried  me  up  the  hill  and  through  the  village 
to  my  grandmother 's  house. 


96  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

In  the  summer  following  I  went  to  school  again,  and  again 
to  the  sentimental  schoolma'am,  who  loved  to  teach,  but 
abhorred  to  punish.  Her  gentle  punishments  rarely  fright- 
ened the  youngest  children. 

She  would  say,  ' '  Henry,  you  have  disobeyed  me,  and  I  shall 
have  to  cut  off  your  ear,"  and  with  these  ominous  words 
she  would  draw  the  back  of  her  penknife  across  the  threat- 
ened ear.  I  must  have  been  very  small,  for  on  one  occasion 
she  threatened  to  shut  me  up  in  one  of  the  school  desks. 

Our  mad  recreation  out  of  school  was  "playing  horse." 
We  drove  each  other  singly  and  in  pairs  by  means  of  wooden 
bits  and  reins  of  sheep-twine,  and  some  prancing  horses  were 
led,  chewing  one  end  of  a  twine  string,  and  neighing  and 
prancing  almost  beyond  the  control  of  the  infant  groom. 

In  the  congressman's  woods,  close  by  the  school-house,  we 
built  stalls  and  mangers  against  logs  and  in  fence  corners, 
and  gathered  horse-sorrel  and  sheep-sorrel  for  hay.  The 
stalls  were  bedded  with  grass  and  protected  from  the  sun  by 
a  roof  of  green  boughs,  and  the  horses  were  watered  and 
curried  and  groomed  in  imitation  of  that  service  at  the  stage 
stables,  and  the  steeds  themselves  kicked  and  bit  like  the 
vicious  leaders. 

Other  teachers  followed  the  young  and  sentimental  one, 
and  the  surplus  of  the  dinner-baskets,  thrown  out  of  the 
window  or  cast  upon  the  wood-pile,  bred  a  colony  of  gray 
rats  that  lived  under  the  schoolhouse  and  came  out  to  take 
the  air  in  the  quiet  period  after  the  door  was  padlocked 
at  night  and  even  ventured  to  come  up  into  the  school-room 
and  look  over  the  books  and  otherwise  nibble  at  learning. 
When  I  had  advanced  to  the  dignity  of  pictorial  geography, 
as  set  forth  in  a  thin,  square-built,  dog-eared  volume,  which 
not  having  been  opened  for  a  whole  day  by  a  certain  prancing 
horse,  he  was  left  to  learn  his  lesson  while  the  teacher  went 
to  tea  at  the  house  below  the  tavern,  and  the  wheat  stubble 
under  the  window  was  soon  alive  with  gray  rodents  that 
looked  like  the  colony  of  seals  in  the  geography. 

About  this  time  the  rats,  having  taken  formal  possession  of 
the  old  school-house,  a  new  school-house  was  built  in  our 


"My  great-grandmother."     {page  97) 


MEMOEIES  OF  CHILDHOOD  97 

village  just  beyond  my  grandmother's  house  and  facing  her 
orchard. 

My  Great-Grandmother 

My  great-grandmother  was  the  widow  of  an  Episcopal 
clergyman,  the  Rev.  Titus  Welton,  whose  son  was  the  first 
rector  of  the  village  church.  My  only  acquaintance  with  my 
great-grandfather  was  connected  with  the  white  headstone 
that  bore  his  name  in  the  grave-yard.  With  the  exception 
of  a  quaint  water-color  portrait  in  profile  of  my  grandmother 
in  a  mob-cap  bound  with  a  black  ribbon,  which  was  equally 
a  portrait  of  the  flowered  back  of  the  rocking-chair  in  which 
she  sat,  she  survives  in  my  memory  in  a  series  of  pictures. 
I  see  her  sitting  before  the  open  fire,  knitting,  with  one  steel 
needle  held  in  a  knitting-sheath  pinned  to  her  left  side,  or 
taking  snuff  from  a  flat,  round  box  that  contained  a  vanilla 
bean  to  perfume  the  snuff.  Her  hands  were  twisted  with 
rheumatism,  and  she  walked  with  a  cane.  On  one  occasion  I 
trotted  by  her  side  to  church  and  carried  her  tin  foot-stove, 
warm  with  glowing  coals. 

She  slept  in  a  high  post  bed  in  her  particular  room  over 
the  sitting-room,  which  was  warmed  in  winter  by  a  sheet-iron 
drum  connected  with  the  stove  below,  and  in  one  corner  was 
a  copper  warming-pan  with  a  long  handle.  When  I  sat  at 
table  in  my  high-chair  eating  apple-pie  in  a  bowl  of  milk, 
she  sat  on  the  side  nearest  the  fire  eating  dipped  toast  with 
a  two-tined  fork.  The  fork  may  have  had  three  tines,  but 
silver  forks  had  not  yet  made  their  appearance. 

My  great-grandmother  lived  just  long  enough  to  have 
her  picture  taken  on  a  plate  of  silvered  copper  by  the  won- 
derful process  of  Daguerre,1  a  process  so  like  something 
diabolical  that  she  protected  her  soul  from  evil,  as  all  sitters 
in  that  part  of  the  country  did,  by  resting  her  hand  on  a 
great  Bible,  the  back  turned  to  the  front,  so  that  the  letters 
"Holy  Bible"  could  be  read,  proving  that  the  great  book 

*  Louis  Daguerre  (1789-1859).  A  French  painter  who  perfected  one 
ftf  the  earliest  methods  of  photography. 


98 


MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STOEIES 


was  not  a  profane  dictionary.  The  operator  who  took  her 
daguerreotype  traveled  from  town  to  town,  hiring  a  room 
in  the  village  tavern  furnished  with  a  chair,  a  stand  on  tri- 
pod legs,  a  brown  linen  table-cloth,  and  the  aforesaid  Bible, 
and  when  such  of  the  people  as  had  the  fee  to  spare,  the 
courage  to  submit  to  a  new-fangled  idea,  and  no  fear  that 
the  face  on  the  magical  plate  would  fade  away  like  any  other 
spirit  face  when  they  opened  the  stamped-leather  case  with 
the  red  plush  lining  after  it  had  lain  overnight  in  the  dark- 
ened parlor,  he  moved  on  like  the  cracker  baker  or  any  other 
itinerant  showman. 

My  great-grandmother  had  never  sent  or  received  a  mes- 
sage by  telegraph  or  ridden  in  a  railway-carriage,  and  died 
in  peace  just  before  those  portentous  inventions  came  to 
destroy  forever  the  small  community  life  in  which  she  had 
lived. 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  Why  does  the  writer  employ  such  simple  language? 

2.  What  sort  of  events  does  he  narrate? 

3.  Why  does  he  give  so  few  details  concerning  his  early  schooldays  [ 

4.  How  does  he  look  upon  his  early  misfortunes? 

5.  Why  does  he  do  little  more  than  present  the  picture  of  his  greats 

grandmother? 

6.  Point  out  examples  of  gentle  humor. 

7.  What  do  the  sketches  reveal  concerning1  life  in  the  past? 

8.  What  spirit  characterizes  both  sketches? 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 


1.  My  First  Schooldays  11. 

2.  My  Grandparents  12. 

3.  An  Early  Misfortune  13. 

4.  Some  Vanished  Friends  14. 

5.  My  Old  Home  15. 

6.  Playmates  16. 

7.  Old  Toys  17. 

8.  My  First  Games  18. 

9.  A  First  Visit  19. 
10.  My  First  Costumes  20. 


Punishments  I  Remember 

Queer  Old  Customs 

My  First  Superstitions 

A  Wonderful  Day 

Gifts 

My  First  Schoolbooks 

Pictures  of  Childhood 

My  Relatives 

A  Great  Event 

Relics  of  the  Past 


MEMORIES  OF  CHILDHOOD  99 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

Throw  yourself  back  into  the  past.  Conjure  up  the  people  with 
whom  you  used  to  associate.  See  once  again  the  places  where  you 
played  and  where  you  lived.  Think  how  happy  it  all  was,  and  how 
good  it  is  to  look  at  it  once  more.  Then  put  down  on  paper  the 
things  that  you  remember  with  the  greatest  interest.  Write  in  such 
a  way  that  you  will  give  the  reader  the  very  spirit  that  you  have. 
Remember:  you  are  not  to  communicate  facts;  you  are  to  communi- 
cate emotion. 


A  VISIT  TO  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

By  SADAKICHI  HARTMANN 

Author  of  the  first  History  of  American  Art,  and  also  of  a 
History  of  Japanese  Art.  Ilis  poems,  short  stories,  and  essays 
appear  in  many  magazines. 

John  Burroughs  was  a  delightful  essayist  and  a  delightful  man. 
Although  he  preferred  to  live  the  most  simple  of  lives  and  to  spend 
his  time  in  meditation  on  the  beauties  of  natural  scenery,  and  the 
wonders  of  animal  life,  he  attracted  to  himself  the  companionship  of 
some  of  the  greatest  in  the  land,  and  the  love  of  all  people.  To  visit 
him  would,  indeed,  have  been  a  delight. 

A  Visit  to  John  Burroughs  is  not  a  dull  narrative  of  the  events  of  a 
visit,  nor  is  it  the  report  of  an  interview  with  the  nature-lover.  It  is 
an  article  that  admits  one  into  the  charm  of  Burroughs'  spirit.  We  are 
with  the  man  in  his  simple,  book-nllsd  home;  we  learn  his  love  for 
pasture  and  mountain-side,  for  birds  and  for  gardening ;  and  we  gain 
some  of  that  spirit  of  contentment  and  peace  that  made  him,  in  his  gray 
old  age,  appear  like  a  prophet  in  the  midst  of  an  over-hurrying 
generation. 

In  some  places  time  passes  without  making  any  change. 
The  little  village  on  the  Hudson  where  John  Burroughs  made 
his  home  half  a  century  ago  has  shown  no  ambition  of  ex- 
pansion. There  is  no  building  activity,  and  the  number 
of  inhabitants  has  scarcely  increased.  The  little  church 
stands  drowsily  on  the  hill,  and  the  same  old  homesteads 
grace  the  road.  More  freight-trains  may  rattle  by,  and 
more  automobiles  pass  on  the  main  road,  but  the  physiognomy 
of  the  town  has  remained  unchanged.  It  is  as  if  time  had 
stood  still.  The  mist  shuts  out  the  rest  of  the  world,  river 
and  hills  disappear,  the  stems  of  the  grape-vines  look  like 
•  a  host  of  goblins,  and  the  wet  trees  make  darker  silhouettes 
than  usual. 

I  knocked  at  a  door  and  entered,  and  there  sat  John 
Burroughs  stretched  at  full  length  in  a  Morris  chair  before 
some  glowing  beech-sticks  in  the  open  fire-place.  There  was 
not  much  conversation.  What  is  most  interesting  in  an 
author's  life  he  expresses  in  his  books,  and  so  we  indulged 

100 


A  VISIT  TO  JOHN  BUEEOUGHS  101 

only  in  an  exchange  of  phrases  about  his  health,  of  the  flight 
of  time,  and  a  few  favored  authors.  The  questioning  of  the 
interviewer  can  produce  only  forced  results,  and  in  par- 
ticular when  the  interviewed  person  has  reached  an  age 
when  taciturnity  becomes  natural,  and  one  prefers  to  gaze 
at  the  dying  embers  and  listen  to  the  drip  of  the  rain  out- 
side. That  his  interest  in  literature  did  not  lag  was  shown 
by  a  set  of  Fabre,1  whom  he  pronounced  the  most  wonderful 
exponent  in  his  special  line. 

A  quaint  interior  was  this  quiet  little  room.  Conspicuous 
were  the  portraits  of  Whitman,2  Carlyle,3  Tolstoy,,4  Roose- 
velt,5 and  Father  Brown  of  the  Holy  Order  of  the  Cross,  men 
who  in  one  way  or  another  must  have  meant  something  to  his 
life.  On  the  mantelpiece  stood  another  portrait  of  Whit- 
man and  a  reproduction  of  ' '  Mona  Lisa. ' '  6  There  were  win- 
dows on  every  side,  and  the  rest  of  the  walls  consisted  of 
shelves  filled  with  nature  books.  One  shelf  displayed  the 
more  scientific  w:rks,  and  one  was  devoted  entirely  to  his 
own  writings.  It  was  the  same  room  in  which  several  years 
ago,  on  a  summer  day  in  the  vagrom  days  of  youth,  I  had 
read  for  the  first  time  ' '  Wake  Robin, ' ' 7  that  classic  of  out- 
of-door  literature,  and  "The  Flight  of  the  Eagle,"  an  ap- 
preciation of  Walt  Whitman. 

John  Burroughs  was  fifty  then,  and  had  just  settled  down 

1Jean  Henri  Fabre  (1823-1915).  A  French  entomologist  who  wrote 
many  volumes  on  insect  life,  among  them  being  The  Life  and  Love  of 
the  Insects;  The  Life  of  the  Spider;  The  Life  of  the  Fly. 

2 Walt  Whitman  (1819-1892).  An  American  poet,  noted  for  highly 
original  poems  marked  by  absence  of  rhyme  and  metre.  Whitman 
loved  the  outdoor  world,  and  had  great  philosophic  insight. 

'Thomas  Carlyle  (1795-1881).  A  brilliant  English  essayist  and  his- 
torian, strikingly  original  and  unconventional,  and  a  firm  upholder  of 
stalwart  manhood. 

4  Count  Leo  Tolstoy  (1828-1910).  A  great  Eussian  novelist,  reformer 
and   philosopher, — a   bold   and   original   thinker. 

8  Theodore  Eoosevelt  (1858-1919).  Eanchman,  author,  soldier,  ex- 
plorer, and  President  of  the  United  States,  a  man  of  sterling  manhood 
and  great  personal  fearlessness. 

8  Mona  Lisa.  A  picture  of  a  lady  of  Florence,  painted  about  1504 
by  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  an  Italian  painter.  The  face  has  a  peculiarly 
tantalizing   expression. 

7  Wake  Robin.  One  of  John  Burroughs'  delightful  outdoor  books, 
written  in  1870. 


102  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

seriously  to  his  literary  pursuits.  He  had  risen  brilliantly 
from  youthful  penury  to  be  the  owner  of  a  large  estate.  His 
latest  achievement  was  "Signs  and  Seasons";  "Riverby," 
a  number  of  essays  of  out-of-door  observations  around  his 
stone  house  by  the  Hudson,  was  in  the  making. 

There  is  a  wonderful  fascination  in  these  books.  They  re- 
veal a  man  who  has  lived  widely  and  intimately,  who  has 
made  nature  his  real  home.  All  day  long  he  is  mingled  with 
the  heart  of  things ;  every  walk  along  the  river,  into  the 
woods,  or  up  the  hills  is  an  adventure.  He  exploits  the 
teachings  of  experience  rather  than  of  books.  His  essays  are 
always  fused  with  actions  of  the  open.  One  feels  exhilara- 
tion in  making  the  acquaintance  of  a  man  with  an  unnar- 
rowed  soul  who  has  burst  free  from  the  shackles  of  intellectual 
authority,  who  joyfully  and  buoyantly  interprets  the  beauties 
about  him,  shunning  no  such  pleasures  as  jumping  a  fence, 
wading  a  brook,  or  climbing  a  tree  or  mountain-side. 

American  literature  has  always  abounded  with  nature  spec- 
ulation and  research.  Bryant 8  was  a  true  poet  of  nature ;  he 
loved  woods,  mountain,  and  river,  and  his  "To  the  Yellow 
Wood  Violet,"  and  "The  Blue  Gentian"  are  gems  of  pic- 
torial nature-writing.  Whittier  9  transfigured  the  beauty  of 
New  England  life  in  one  poem  "Snowbound,"  and  in  his 
"Autumn  Walk"  leisurely  strolled  to  the  portals  of  im- 
mortality. Whitman  stalked  about  on  the  open  road  like  a 
pantheist.10 

Yet  none  had  the  faculties  of  discovery  and  interpretation 
like  John  Burroughs,  the  intimate  knowledge,  the  warm 
vision,  to  which  a  wood-pile  can  become  a  matter  of  con- 
templation, and  a  back  yard  or  a  garden  patch  become  as  in- 
teresting as  any  scenery  in  the  world.  None  of  them  could 
have  lectured  on  apple-trees  or  gray  squirrels  with  such 
intimacy  as  Burroughs.    Burroughs  has  never  any  sympathy 

"William  Cullen  Bryant  (1794-1878).  The  first  great  American  poet; 
author  of  Thanatopsis ;  noted  for  his  love  of  nature. 

•John  Greenleaf  Whittier  (1807-1892).  An  American  poet  who  wrote 
lovingly  of  New  England  life  and  scenery.  He  is  noted  for  his  poems 
against  slavery. 

10  Pantheist.     One  who  sees  God  in  everything  that  exists. 


A  VISIT  TO  JOHN  BURROUGHS  103 

with  the  "pathetic  fallacy  of  endowing  inanimate  objects 
with  human  attributes,"  nor  would  he  indorse  Machin's 
propaganda  idea  of  the  antagonism  of  animals  against  their 
human  masters. 

A  trout  leaping  in  a  mountain  stream,  the  lively  whistle  of 
a  bird  high  in  the  upper  air,  a  bird's  nest  in  an  old  fence 
post — these  are  some  of  the  topics  nearest  his  heart.  No 
nature-writer  has  ever  shown  such  diversity  of  interest.  Even 
Eip  Van  Winkle  did  not  know  the  mountains  as  well  as  does 
this  camper  and  tramper  for  a  lifetime  on  the  same  familiar 
grounds;  over  and  over  again  he  makes  the  round  from 
Riverby  to  Slabsides,  to  Roxbury  in  the  western  Catskills, 
and  back  again  to  the  rustic  studio  near  the  river.  He  knows 
every  pasture,  mountain-side,  and  valley  of  his  chosen  land. 
He  even  named  some  of  the  hills.  One  of  them,  much  fre- 
quented by  bees,  he  named  ' '  Mount  Hymettus, ' ' 1X  because 
there  "from  out  the  garden  hives,  the  humming  cyclone  of 
humming  bees"  liked  to  congregate. 

But  is  his  minute  observation  of  weed  seeds  in  the  open 
field  or  insect  eggs  on  tree-trunks  not  disastrous  to  liter- 
ary expression?  Can  this  style  of  writing  soar  above 
straightforward  nature-writing  of  men  like  Wilson,12  Muir,13 
White,14  and  Chapman? 15  Burroughs  is  capable  of  making  a 
long-winded  analysis  of  the  downward  perch  of  the  head  of 
the  nut-hatch,  but  he  is  no  Audubon.16  As  a  literary  man  he 
is  an  essayist  who  etches  little  vignettes,  one  after  the  other, 
with  rare  precision.  How  fine  is  his  sentence  about  the 
unmusical  song  of  the  blackbirds!     "The  air  is  filled  with 

11  Mount  Hymettus.     A  mountain   in  Greece   from   which  most   excel 
lent  honey  was  obtained  in  classic  times. 

"Alexander  Wilson  (1766-1813).  Bom  in  Scotland  and  died  in 
Philadelphia;  author  of  a  remarkable  study  of  American  birds,  pub- 
lished  in  nine  volumes. 

13  John  Muir  (1838-1911).  An  American  naturalist  and  explorer  of 
the  west  and  of  Alaska. 

14 Gilbert  White  (1720-1793).  An  English  naturalist,  noted  for  his 
Natural  History  and  Antiquities  of  Selbome. 

15 Frank  M.  Chapman  (1864 — ).  An  American  writer  on  biro  life.  He 
is  especially  noted  for  excellent  work  in  photographing  birds. 

16  John  James  Audubon  (1780-1851).  A  great  American  student  of 
birds;    noted  for  his  exact   drawings  of   birds. 


104  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

crackling,  splintering,  spurting,  semi-musical  sounds  which 
are  like  salt  and  pepper  to  the  ear."  Here  the  poetic 
temperament  finds  an  utterance  far  beyond  the  broad  knowl- 
edge of  nature. 

And  there  is  his  fine  appreciation  of  Walt  "Whitman,  his 
grasp  of  literary  values  despite  working  in  a  comparatively 
smaller  field  of  activity.  John  Burroughs  has  a  good  deal 
of  Whitman  about  him,  whom  he  called  ' '  the  one  mountain  in 
our  literary  landscape."  The  man  of  Riverby  is  not  large 
of  stature,  but  has  the  same  nonchalance  of  deportment, 
the  Mowing  beard,  and  the  ruddy  face,  a  few  shades  darker 
than  that  of  the  good  gray  poet;  for  Whitman  was,  after 
all,  a  city  man,  while  Burroughs  always  lived  his  life  out 
of  doors. 

We  talked  about  the  looks  of  Whitman,  whom  he  had  known 
in  Washington  in  the  sixties. 

"Yes,  he  had  a  decided  vitality,  although  he  was  already 
gray  and  bent  at  that  time.  Yes,  he  would  talk  if  one  could 
draw  him  out." 

"I  believe  he  talked  only  for  Traubel,"  17  I  dryly  remarked, 
at  which  Burroughs  was  greatly  amused. 

Emerson  18  was  the  god  of  Burroughs 's  youth,  but  Whitman 
undoubtedly  exercised  the  more  lasting  influence.  This,  how- 
ever, never  touched  Burroughs 's  own  peculiar  nature-fresh* 
and-homespun  style.  It  lingered  only  as  a  vague  inspiration 
in  the  under  rhythm  of  his  work.  Whitman  had  the  macro- 
cosmic  vision,19  while  Burroughs  is  an  adherent  of  microcosm. 
Few  can  combine  both  qualities. 

Burroughs  is  an  amateur  farmer  and  gardener.  He  prunes 
his  cherrytrees,  cures  hay,  and  thinks  of  new  methods  of 
mowing  grain.  He  experimented  with  grape-vines,  a  rather 
futile  occupation  at  this  period  of  social  evolution.     He  has 

17  Horace  Traubel  (1858-1919)  An  American  editor  who  was  the 
literary  executor  of  Walt  Whitman. 

"Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  (1803-1882).  An  American  poet  and  phil- 
osopher;  a  man  of  marked  individuality  and  power. 

"  Macrocosmic.  The  sentence  means  that  Whitman  looked  upon  thw 
world  Miid  upon  the  unherse  as  a  whole,  while  Burroughs  studied  little. 
or   individual   things  in   order   tc   understand   the   whole. 


A  VISIT  TO  JOHN  BUBEOUGHS  105 

been  a  great  cherry-picker  all  his  life,  and  I  remember  with 
keen  pleasure  how  delicious  those  wild  raspberries  tasted 
that  I  shared  with  him  one  summer  day.  He  has  a  celery 
farm  at  Roxbury,  his  birthplace,  and  when  I  was  last  at 
Slabsides,  his  bungalow  in  the  hills  near  West  Park,  I  saw 
nothing  but  beets  for  cattle.  I  was  astonished  at  this  pecu- 
liar, indeed,  prosaic  pastime.  And  still  more  so  that  he  had 
chosen  for  residence  a  site  in  a  hollow  of  the  mountain-side, 
while  only  a  few  steps  above  one  can  enjoy  a  most  gorgeous 
view  of  the  surrounding  country.  Did  he  make  the  selec- 
tion because  the  place  is  more  sheltered?  No,  I  believe 
he  chose  the  place  intuitively,  because  it  expresses  his  par- 
ticular point  of  view  of  life.  The  keen  breeze  and  the  wide 
view  serve  only  for  occasional  inspiration ;  but  the  under- 
growth vegetation,  the  crust  of  soil,  the  hum  of  insects,  the 
little  flowers — these  are  the  true  stimulants  of  his  eloquent 
simplicity  of  style. 

Burroughs  professed  to  have  a  great  admiration  for 
Trrguenieff's20  "Diary  of  a  Sportsman."  These  exquisite 
prose  poems  represent  nature  at  its  best,  but  they  are  purely 
poetic,  pictorial,  with  a  big  cosmic  swing  to  them.  This  is 
out  of  the  reach  of  Burroughs,  and  he  never  attempted  it. 
His  poems  contain,  as  he  says  himself,  more  science  and 
observation  than  poetry.  A  few  beautiful  lines  everybody 
can  learn  to  write,  and  unless  they  are  fragments  of  a  torso 
of  the  most  intricate  and  beautiful  construction,  they  will 
drop  like  the  slanting  rain  into  the  dark  wastes  of  oblivion. 

His  lessons  of  nature,  accepted  as  text -books  in  the  public 
schools,  have  a  true  message  to  convey.  They  represent  the 
socialization  of  science.  He  loves  the  birds  and  learned  their 
ways;  he  could  run  his  course  aright,  as  he  has  placed  his 
goal  rightly.  He  stirred  the  earth  about  the  roots  of  his 
knowledge  deeply,  and  thereby  entered  a  new  field  of  thought. 
He  became  interested  in  final  causes,  design  in  nature. 

The  transcendentalist 21  of  the  Emersonian  period  at  last 

80  Ivan  Turguenieff  (1818-1883).  A  Eussian  novelist  whose  Diary  of  a 
Sportsman  aided  in  bringing  about  the  freeing  of  Eussian  serfs. 

31  Transcendentalist.  One  who  believes  in  principles  that  can  not  be 
proved  by  experiment. 


106  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

came  to  his  own.  There  is  something  of  the  bigness  of 
Thoreau  22  in  his  recent  writings,  Thoreau  who  in  his  "Con- 
cord and  Merrimac  River"  had  a  mystical  vision,  a  grip  on  re- 
ligious thought,  and  who,  like  a  craftsman  in  cloisonne, 
hammered  his  philosophic  speculations  upon  the  frugal  shapes 
of  his  observations.  In  "Ways  of  Nature"  and  "Leaf  and 
Tendril"  Burroughs  has  reached  out  as  far  as  it  is  possible 
for  a  nature  writer  without  becoming  a  philosopher.  He 
now  no  longer  contemplates  the  outward  appearance  of 
things,  but  their  organic  structure,  the  geological  formation 
of  the  earth 's  crust,  and  the  evolution  of  life.  And  some  ledge 
of  rock  will  now  give  him  the  prophetic  gaze  into  the  past 
and  into  the  future. 

And  so  John  Burroughs  at  eighty-five,  still  chopping  the 
wood  for  his  own  fireside,  writing,  lecturing,  giving  advice 
about  phases  of  farm-work,  strolling  over  the  ground,  still 
interested  in  literature,  can  serenely  fold  his  hands  and  wait. 

Indeed,  this  white-bearded  man,  in  his  bark-covered  study 
amidst  veiled  heights  and  blurred  river  scenes,  furnishes  a 
wonderful  intimate  picture  which  will  linger  in  American 
literature  and  in  the  minds  of  all  who  yearn  for  a  more  in- 
timate knowledge  of  nature,  unaffectedly  told,  like  the  song 
of  the  robin  of  his  first  love,  ' '  a  harbinger  of  spring  thoughts 
carrying  with  it  the  fragrance  of  the  first  flowers  and  the 
improving  verdure  of  the  fields." 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  How   does   the   first   paragraph    indicate   the   key-note   of   the 

article? 

2.  What  do  Burroughs'  pictures  and  books  show  concerning  his 

character? 

3.  What  sort  of  life  did  Burroughs  lead? 

4.  What  is  meant  by  "exploiting  the  teaching  of  experience  rather 

than  of  books"? 

5.  How  did  Burroughs  find  happiness? 

6.  What  is  said  concerning  Burroughs'  faculties  of  discovery  and 

interpretation  ? 
"Henry  David  Thoreau  (1817-1862).     An  American  essayist,  natural, 
ist  and  philosopher. 


A  VISIT  TO  JOHN  BURROUGHS  107 

7.  What  diversity  of  interests  did  Burroughs  show  ? 

8.  What  is  said  concerning  Burroughs'  work  as  an  essayist? 

9.  Why  was  Burroughs  fond  of  Walt  Whitman? 

10.  How  did  Burroughs  gain  literary  style? 

11.  What  is  meant  by  the  "socialization  of  science"? 

12.  What  makes  Burroughs  such  a  charming  person? 

13.  Into  what  sections  may  the  article  be  divided? 

14.  What  does  the  article  reveal  concerning  its  author? 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 

1.  A  Visit  with  My  Teacher         11.  Our  Unusual  Caller 

2.  A    Call    on    an    Interesting     12.  A  Talk  with  a  Tramp 

Person 

3.  In  the  Office  of  the  Principal  13.  The  Beggar's  Life 

4.  Visiting  My  Relatives  14.  My  Cousin 

5.  A   Visit  to   Another   School  15.  A  Talk  with  an  Expert 

than  My  Own 

6.  A  Talk  with  a  Fireman  16.  My  Friend,  the  Carpenter 

7.  A  Talk  with  a  Policeman  17.  Interviewing  a  Peddler 

8.  An  Interview  with  a  Stranger  18.  Talking  with  a  Missionary 

9.  The  Man  in  the  Office  19.  In  the  Printer's  Office 
10.  The  Busy  Clerk  20.  The  Railroad  Conductor 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

Write  about  an  actual  visit  or  interview.  In  all  your  work  pay 
most  attention  to  presenting  the  spirit  of  the  person  whom  you 
talk  with.  The  events  of  your  visit,  and  the  remarks  that  are  made, 
are  of  less  importance  than  the  things  that  reveal  spirit, — the  sur- 
roundings, the  costume,  the  habits,  the  work  done  and  the  various 
things  that  show  character.  The  essay  is  in  no  sense  to  be  the  story 
of  a  visit;  it  is  to  give  an  intimate  picture  of  the  person  in  whom 
you  are  interested.     Your  object  is  to  show  character. 


WASHINGTON  ON  HORSEBACK 

By  H.  A.  OGDEN 

(1S56 — ).  An  illustrator,  particularly  of  American  historical 
subjects,  on  which  he  is  an  authority.  Eis  most  noted  work  is  71 
color  plates  of  uniforms  of  the  U.  S.  Army,  1775-1906.  He 
made  the  original  cartoons  for  the  Washington  memorial  win- 
dow in  the  Valley  Forge  memorial.  He  is  the  author  and 
illustrator  of  The  Boys  Book  of  Famous  Beginients;  Our  Flag 
and  Our  Songs;  The  Voyage  of  the  Mayflower;  Our  Army  for 
Our  Boys  (joint  author);  and  numerous  magazine  articles  of  a 
historical  nature. 

The  ordinary  magazine  article,  lacking  the  personal  note,  is  not  an 
essay.  As  a  rule,  such  an  article  endeavors  to  present  a  subject  in  its 
entirety,  to  follow  a  strictly  logical  order,  and  to  avoid  any  expression 
of  personal  reaction  on  the  part  of  the  writer. 

Some  magazine  articles,  however,  are  written  in  such  an  easy,  chatty 
style,  without  any  hint  of  attempt  to  cover  a  subject  either  completely 
or  logically,  that  they  approach  the  essay  form. 

Washington  on  Horseback  is  an  article  that  closely  resembles  an  essay. 
It  is  discursive,  anecdotal,  wandering  and  is  much  like  a  pleasant  talk 
about  Washington  and  his  love  of  horses.  Although  the  writer  keeps 
himself  entirely  behind  the  scenes  it  is  evident  that  he  is  a  man  who 
admires  horses  as  well  as  manliness  and  courage. 

"The  best  horseman  of  his  age,  and  the  most  graceful 
figure  that  could  be  seen  on  horseback,"  was  Thomas  Jeffer- 
son's opinion  of  his  great  fellow-Virginian,  George  Washing- 
ton. From  his  early  boyhood,  a  passionate  fondness  for  the 
horse  was  a  strong  and  lasting  trait  of  our  foremost  American. 

When  a  little  boy  of  eight,  he  was  given  his  first  riding- 
lessons  on  his  pony  Hero  by  Uncle  Ben,  an  old  servant  (per- 
haps a  slave)  of  his  father's. 

On  one  occasion,  when  under  the  paternal  eye,  he  tried 
over  and  over  again  to  leap  his  pony.  When  he  finally  suc- 
ceeded in  doing  so,  both  rider  and  pony  fell;  but  jumping 
up,  the  boy  was  quickly  in  the  saddle  again,  his  father,  a 

108 


WASHINGTON  ON  HOESEBACK  109 

masterful  man  who  hated  defeat,  exclaiming,  "That  was 
ill  ridden ;  try  it  again ! ' '  This  happening  near  their  home, 
his  mother  rushed  out,  greatly  alarmed,  and  begged  them  to 
stop.  Finding  her  entreaties  were  unheeded,  she  returned  to 
the  house  protesting  that  her  boy  would  "surely  be  mur- 
dered!" And  during  all  of  her  long  life  this  dread  of  the 
dangers  her  son  incurred  was  one  of  her  striking  character- 
istics. 

This  early  training  in  riding,  however,  was  greatly  to  the 
boy's  advantage;  for  his  satisfaction  in  conquering  horses 
and  training  them  made  him  a  fine  horseman  and  prepared 
him  for  the  coming  years  when  he  was  to  be  so  much  in  the 
saddle. 

A  notable  instance  of  early  intrepidity  in  the  tall  and  ath- 
letic boy,  in  his  early  teens,  in  mastering  a  wild,  unmanage- 
able colt  is  related  by  G.  W.  P.  Custis,1  Washington's  adopted 
son.  The  story  goes  that  this  colt,  a  thoroughbred  sorrel, 
was  a  favorite  of  Washington's  mother,  her  husband  having 
been  much  attached  to  him.  Of  a  vicious  nature,  no  one  had 
thus  far  ventured  to  ride  him;  so  before  breakfast  one  morn- 
ing, George,  aided  by  some  of  his  companions,  corraled  the 
animal  and  succeeded  in  getting  bit  and  bridle  in  place. 

Leaping  on  his  back,  the  venturesome  youth  was  soon  tear- 
ing around  the  enclosure  at  breakneck  speed,  keeping  his  seat 
firmly  and  managing  his  mount  with  a  skill  that  surprised 
and  relieved  the  fears  of  the  other  boys.  An  unlooked-for  end 
to  the  struggle  came,  however,  when,  with  a  mighty  effort,  the 
horse  reared  and  plunged  with  such  violence  that  he  burst  a 
blood-vessel  and  in  a  moment  was  dead. 

Looking  at  the  fallen  steed,  the  boys  asked  "What  's  to  be 
done  ?  Who  will  tell  the  tale  ? ' '  The  answer  soon  had  to  be 
given;  for  when  they  went  in  to  the  morning  meal,  Mrs. 
Washington  asked  if  they  had  seen  her  favorite  horse. 
Noting  their  embarrassment,  she  repeated  the  question ;  when 
George  spoke  up  and  told  the  whole  story  of  the  misadven- 
ture.    "George,  I   forgive  you,  because  you  have  had  the 

'George  Washington  Parke  Custis  (1781-1857).  The  adopted  son  of 
George  Washington. 


110  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

courage  to  tell  the  truth  at  once,"  was  her  characteristic 
reply. 

Upon  their  father's  death,  his  accomplished  brother  Law- 
rence took  an  active  interest  in  George's  education  and  de- 
velopment. The  boy  had  taken  a  strong  hold  on  Lawrence's 
affection,  which  the  younger  brother  returned  by  a  devoted 
attachment.  Among  other  accomplishments,  George  was  en- 
couraged to  perfect  his  horsemanship  by  the  promise  of  a 
horse,  together  with  some  riding  clothes  from  London — espe- 
cially a  red  coat  and  a  pair  of  spurs,  sure  to  appeal  to  the 
spirit  and  daring  of  the  youth. 

His  first  hunting  venture,  as  told  by  Dr.  Weir  Mitchell 2  in 
' '  The  Youth  of  Washington, ' '  occurred  on  a  Saturday  morn- 
ing,— a  school  holiday  even  in  those  days, — when,  there  being 
none  to  hinder,  George  having  persuaded  an  old  groom  to 
saddle  a  hunter,  he  galloped  off  to  a  fox-hunting  "meet"  four 
miles  away.  Greatly  amused,  the  assembled  huntsmen  asked 
if  he  could  stay  on,  and  if  the  horse  knew  he  had  a  rider? 
To  which  George  replied  that  the  big  sorrel  he  rode  knew  his 
business ;  and  he  was  in  at  the  kill  of  two  foxes.  On  the  way 
back  the  horse  went  lame,  and  on  arriving  at  the  stable  the 
rider  saw  an  overseer  about  to  punish  Sampson,  the  groom, 
for  letting  the  boy  take  a  horse  that  was  about  to  be  sold.  He 
quickly  dismounted  and  snatched  the  whip  from  the  overseer 's 
hand,  exclaiming  that  he  was  to  blame  and  should  be  whipped 
first.  The  man  answered  that  his  mother  would  decide  what 
to  do ;  but  the  boy  never  heard  of  the  matter  again.  The 
anger  he  showed  on  this  occasion  caused  old  Sampson  to  ad- 
monish him  never  to  "get  angry  with  a  horse." 

When  about  sixteen,  George  lived  a  great  part  of  the  time 
at  Mount  Vernon,  Lawrence's  home,  where  he  made  many 
friends  among  the  "Old  Dominion"  gentry,  the  most  promi- 
nent of  them  being  Thomas,  Lord  Fairfax,  an  eccentric  old 
bachelor,  residing  with  his  kindred  at  Belvoir,  an  adjoining 
estate  on  the  Potomac.  As  this  had  been  the  home  of  Anne 
Fairfax,  Lawrence's  wife,   the  brothers  were  ever  welcome 

'Dr.  S.  Weir  Mitchell  (1829-1014).  An  American  physician  and 
novelist.     His  novel.  Hugh  Wynne,  concerns  the  life  of  Washington. 


WASHINGTON  ON  HORSEBACK  111 

guests.  Attracted  to  each  other  by  the  fact  that  both  were 
bold  and  skilful  riders  and  by  their  love  of  horses,  a  life-long 
friendship  was  formed  between  the  tall  Virginian,  a  stripling 
in  his  teens,  and  the  elderly  English  nobleman,  and  many  a 
hard  ride  they  took  together,  with  a  pack  of  hounds,  over  the 
rough  country,  chasing  the  gray  foxes  of  that  locality. 

Settled  at  Mount  Vernon,  in  the  years  following  his  mar- 
riage and  up  to  the  beginning  of  the  War  for  Independence, 
"Washington  found  great  pleasure  in  his  active,  out-of-door 
life,  his  greatest  amusement  being  the  hunt,  which  gratified 
to  the  full  his  fondness  for  horses  and  dogs. 

His  stables  were  full,  numbering  at  one  time  one  hundred 
and  forty  horses,  among  them  some  of  the  finest  animals  in 
Virginia.  Magnolia,  an  Arabian,  was  a  favorite  riding-horse ; 
while  Chinkling,  Valiant,  Ajax,  and  Blue-skin  were  also 
high-bred  hunters.  His  pack  of  hounds  was  splendidly 
trained,  and  "meets"  were  held  three  times  a  week  in  the 
hunting  season. 

After  breakfasting  by  candle-light,  a  start  was  made  at 
daybreak.  Splendidly  mounted,  and  dressed  in  a  blue  coat, 
scarlet  vest,  buckskin  breeches,  and  velvet  cap,  and  in  the 
lead, — for  it  was  Washington's  habit  to  stay  close  up  with 
the  hounds, — the  excitement  of  the  chase  possessed  a  strong 
fascination  for  him. 

These  hunting  parties  are  mentioned  in  many  brief  entries 
in  his  diaries.  In  1768,  he  writes:  "Mr.  Bryan  Fairfax,  Mr. 
Grayson,  and  Phil  Alexander  came  home  by  sunrise.  Hunted 
and  catched  a  fox  with  these :  Lord  Fairfax,  his  brother,  and 
Colonel  Fairfax  and  his  brother;  all  of  whom  with  Mr. 
Fairfax  and  Mr.  Wilson  of  England  dined  here."  Again,  on 
November  26  and  29:  "Hunted  again  with  the  same  party." 
1768, — January  8  :  "  Hunting  again  with  the  same  company — 
started  a  fox  and  run  him  four  hours. ' '  Thus  we  learn  from 
his  own  pen  how  frequently  this  manly  sport,  that  kept  him 
young  and  strong,  was  followed  by  the  boldest  rider  in  all 
Virginia. 

A  seven-years  absence  during  the  war  caused  the  hunting 
establishment  of  Mount  Vernon  to  run  down  considerably; 


112  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

but  on  returning  in  1783,  after  peace  came,  the  sport  was 
renewed  vigorously  for  a  time. 

Blue-skin,  an  iron-gray  horse  of  great  endurance  in  a  long 
run,  was  the  general's  favorite  mount  during  these  days. 
With  Billy  Lee,  the  huntsman,  blowing  the  big  French 
horn,  a  present  from  Lafayette, — the  fox  was  chased  at  full 
speed  over  the  rough  fields  and  through  such  tangled  woods 
and  thickets  as  would  greatly  astonish  the  huntsmen  of  to-day. 

"What  with  private  affairs,  official  visits,  and  the  crowd  of 
guests  at  his  home,  Washington  felt  obliged  to  give  up  this 
sport  he  so  loved,  for  his  last  hunt  with  the  hounds  is  said 
to  have  been  in  1785. 

To  return  to  his  youthful  days.  At  sixteen  he  was  com- 
missioned to  survey  Lord  Fairfax's  vast  estates,  and  soon 
after  was  appointed  a  public  surveyor.  The  three  years  of 
rough  toil  necessitated  by  his  calling  were  spent  continually 
in  the  saddle.  Those  youthful  surveys,  being  made  with 
George's  characteristic  thoroughness,  stand  unquestioned  to 
this  day. 

The  beginning  of  his  active  military  career  started  with  a 
long,  difficult  journey  of  five  hundred  miles  to  the  French 
fort  on  the  Ohio,  most  of  which  was  made  in  the  saddle.  It 
was  hard  traveling  for  the  young  adjutant  general  of  twenty- 
one  accompanied  by  a  small  escort.  On  the  return  journey, 
the  horses  were  abandoned,  and  it  was  when  traveling  on 
foot  that  his  miraculous  escapes  from  a  shot  fired  by  a 
treacherous  Indian  guide  and  from  drowning,  occurred. 

When,  in  1755,  the  British  expedition  against  the  French 
fort  on  the  Monongahela,  commanded  by  General  Braddock, 
started  out  from  Alexandria,  Washington,  acting  as  one  of 
the  general 's  aides,  was  too  ill  to  start  with  it ;  but  when  the 
day  of  action  came,  the  day  that  the  French  and  Indians 
ambushed  the  "red-coats,"  the  young  Virginia  colonel,  al- 
though still  weak,  rode  everywhere  on  the  field  of  slaughter, 
striving  to  rally  the  panic-stricken  regulars ;  and  although 
two  horses  had  been  shot  under  him,  he  was  the  only  mounted 
officer  left  at  the  end  of  the  fight. 

On  the  occasion  of  Washington's  first  visit  to  Philadelphia, 


WASHINGTON  ON  HOKSEBACK  113 

New  York,  and  Boston,  in  1756,  he  rode  the  whole  distance, 
with  two  aides  and  servants,  to  confer  with  Governor  Shirley 
of  Massachusetts  and  settle  with  him  the  question  of  his  army 
rank.  He  was  appropriately  equipped  for  his  mission,  and  the 
description  of  the  little  cavalcade  is  very  striking.  "Washing- 
ton, in  full  uniform  of  a  Virginia  colonel,  a  white-and-scarlet 
cloak,  sword-knot  of  red  and  gold,  his  London-made  holsters 
and  saddle-cloth  trimmed  with  his  livery  "lace"  and  the 
Washington  arms,  his  aides  also  in  uniform,  with  the  servants 
in  their  white-and-scarlet  liveries,  their  cocked  hats  edged 
with  silver,  bringing  up  the  rear,  attracted  universal  notice. 
Everywhere  he  was  received  with  enthusiasm,  his  fame  having 
gone  before  him.  Dined  and  feted  in  Philadelphia  and  New 
York,  he  spent  ten  days  with  the  hospitable  royal  governor  of 
Massachusetts.  The  whole  journey  was  a  success,  bringing 
him,  as  it  did,  in  contact  with  new  scenes  and  people. 

It  seems  noteworthy  that  in  accounts  of  the  campaigns  and 
battles  of  the  Revolution  such  frequent  mention  is  made  of  the 
commander-in-chief  on  horseback.  From  the  time  he  rode 
from  Philadelphia  to  take  command  of  the  army  at  Cam- 
bridge, in  1775,  down  to  the  capitulation  of  Yorktown  in 
1783,  his  horses  were  an  important  factor  in  his  campaigns. 
A.mong  many  such  incidents,  a  notable  one  is  that  which  oc- 
curred when,  after  the  defeat  of  the  Americans  at  Brooklyn 
and  their  retreat  across  the  river  to  New  York,  Washington 
in  his  report  to  Congress  wrote:  "Our  passage  across  the 
East  River  was  effected  yesterday  morning;  and  for  forty- 
eight  hours  preceding  that  I  had  hardly  been  off  my  horse 
and  never  closed  my  eyes."  He  was,  in  fact,  the  last  to  leave, 
remaining  until  all  his  troops  had  been  safely  ferried  across. 

An  all-night  ride  to  Princeton,  in  bitter  cold,  over  frozen 
roads,  and,  when  day  dawned,  riding  fearlessly  over  the  field 
to  rally  his  men,  reining  in  his  charger  within  thirty  yards 
of  the  enemy,  forms  another  well-known  incident. 

At  the  battle  of  Brandywine  an  old  farmer  was  pressed  into 
service  to  lead  the  way  to  where  the  battle  was  raging,  and  he 
relates  that  as  his  horse  took  the  fences  Washington  was 
continually  at  his  side,  saying  repeatedly:  "Push  along,  old 


114  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

man;  push  along!"  Shortly  after  the  defeat  at  Brandywine, 
General  Howe 's  advance  regiments  were  attacked  at  German- 
town  ;  and  here,  as  at  Princeton,  Washington,  in  spite  of  the 
protests  of  his  officers,  rode  recklessly  to  the  front  when  things 
were  going  wrong. 

After  the  hard  winter  at  Valley  Forge,  and  when  in  June 
of  1778  the  British  abandoned  Philadelphia  he  took  up  the 
march  to  Sandy  Hook,  Washington  resolved  to  attack  them 
on  their  route.  On  crossing  the  Delaware  in  pursuit  of  the 
enemy,  Governor  William  Livingston  of  New  Jersey  presented 
to  the  commander-in-chief  a  splendid  white  horse,  upon  which 
he  hastened  to  the  battle-field  of  Monmouth. 

Mr.  Custis  in  his  "Recollections  of  Washington,"  states 
that  on  the  morning  of  the  twenty-eighth  of  June,  he  rode, 
and  for  that  time  only  during  the  war,  a  white  charger. 
Galloping  forward,  he  met  General  Charles  Lee,3  with  the 
advanced  guard,  falling  back  in  confusion.  Indignant  at  the 
disobedience  of  his  orders,  Washington  expressed  his  wrath 
in  peremptory  language,  Lee  being  ordered  to  the  rear.  Rid- 
ing back  and  forth  through  the  fire  of  the  enemy,  animating 
his  soldiers,  and  recalling  them  to  their  duty  he  reformed  the 
lines  and  turned  the  battle  tide  by  his  vigorous  meas- 
ures. From  the  overpowering  heat  of  the  day,  and  the 
deep  and  sandy  soil,  his  spirited  white  horse  sank  under  him 
and  expired.  A  chestnut  mare,  of  Arabian  stock,  was  quickly 
mounted,  this  beautiful  animal  being  ridden  through  the  rest 
of  the  battle.  Lafayette,  always  an  ardent  admirer  of  Wash- 
ington, told  in  later  years  of  Monmouth,  where  he  had  com- 
manded a  division,  and  how  his  beloved  chief,  splendidly 
mounted,  cheered  on  his  men.  "I  thought  then  as  now,"  said 
the  enthusiastic  Frenchman,  "that  never  had  I  beheld  so 
superb  a  man." 

Of  all  his  numerous  war-horses,  the  greatest  favorite  was 
Nelson — a  large,  light  sorrel,  with  white  face  and  legs,  named 
after  the  patriot  governor  of  Virginia.     In  many  battles, — 

•General  Charles  Lee  (1731-1782).  An  American  Revolutionary  Gen- 
eral court-martialed  for  disobedience  at  the  battle  Of  Monmouth,  1778. 


WASHINGTON  ON  HORSEBACK  115 

often  under  fire, — Nelson  had  carried  his  great  master  and 
was  the  favored  steed  at  the  crowning  event  of  the  war — the 
capitulation  of  Yorktown. 

Living  to  a  good  old  age,  and  never  ridden  after  Washing- 
ton ceased  to  mount  him,  the  veteran  charger  was  well  taken 
care  of,  grazing  in  a  paddock  through  the  summers.  And 
often,  as  the  retired  general  and  President  made  the  rounds 
of  his  fields,  the  old  war-horse  would  run  neighing  to  the 
fence,  to  be  caressed  by  the  hand  of  his  former  master. 

During  the  eight  years  of  his  Presidency,  Washington  fre- 
quently took  exercise  on  horseback,  his  stables  containing  at 
that  time  as  many  as  ten  coach-  and  saddle-horses. 

When  in  Philadelphia,  then  the  seat  of  government,  the 
President  owned  two  pure  white  saddle-horses,  named  Pres- 
cott  and  Jackson,  the  former  being  a  splendid  animal,  which, 
while  accustomed  to  cannon-fire,  waving  flags,  or  martial 
music,  had  a  bad  habit  of  dancing  about  and  shying  when 
a  *2oach,  especially  one  containing  ladies,  would  stop  to  greet 
the  President.  The  other  white  horse,  Jackson,  was  an  Arab, 
with  flowing  mane  and  tail,  but,  being  an  impetuous  and 
fretful  animal,  he  was  not  a  favorite. 

A  celebrated  riding-teacher  used  to  say  that  he  loved  "to 
see  the  general  ride ;  his  seat  is  so  firm,  his  management  of 
his  mount  so  easy  and  graceful,  that  I,  who  am  a  professor 
of  horsemanship,  would  go  to  him  and  learn  to  ride." 

Since  his  early  boyhood,  the  only  recorded  fall  from  a  horse 
that  Washington  had  was  once  on  his  return  to  Mount  Vernon 
from  Alexandria.  His  horse  on  this  occasion,  while  an  easy- 
gaited  one,  was  scary.  When  Washington  was  about  to  mount 
and  rise  in  the  stirrup,  the  animal,  alarmed  by  the  glare  of  a 
fire  by  the  roadside,  sprang  from  under  his  rider,  who  fell 
heavily  to  the  ground.  Fearing  that  he  was  hurt,  his  com- 
panions rushed  to  his  assistance,  but  the  vigorous  old  gentle- 
man, getting  quickly  on  his  feet,  assured  them  that,  though 
his  tumble  was  complete,  he  was  unhurt.  Having  been  only 
poised  in  his  stirrup  and  not  yet  in  the  saddle,  he  had  a  fall 
no  horseman  could  prevent  when  a  scary  animal  sprang  from 


116  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

under  him.  Vicious  propensities  in  horses  never  troubled 
Washington ;  he  only  required  them  to  go  along. 

An  amusing  anecdote  is  told  of  one  of  Washington's  sec- 
retaries, Colonel  David  Humphreys.  The  colonel  was  a  lively 
companion  and  a  great  favorite,  and  on  one  of  their  rides 
together  he  challenged  his  chief  to  jump  a  hedge.  Always 
ready  to  accept  a  challenge  of  this  sort,  Washington  told  him 
to  "go  ahead,"  whereupon  Humphreys  cleared  the  hedge, 
but  landed  in  the  ditch  on  the  other  side  up  to  his  saddle- 
girth.  Riding  up  and  smiling  at  his  mud-bespattered  friend, 
Washington  observed,  "Ah,  Colonel,  you  are  too  deep  for 
me!" 

On  the  Mount  Vernon  estates,  during  the  years  of  retire- 
ment from  all  public  office,  his  rides  of  inspection  were  from 
twelve  to  fourteen  miles  a  day,  usually  at  a  moderate  pace; 
but  being  the  most  punctual  of  men,  he  would,  if  delayed, 
display  the  horsemanship  of  earlier  days  by  a  hard  gallop 
so  as  to  be  in  time  for  the  first  dinner-bell  at  a  quarter  of  three. 

A  last  glimpse  of  this  great  man  in  the  saddle,  is  as  an  old 
gentleman,  in  plain  drab  clothes,  a  broad-brimmed  white  hat, 
carrying  a  hickory  switch,  with  a  long-handled  umbrella  hung 
at  his  saddle-bow — such  was  the  description  given  of  him  by 
Mr.  Custis  to  an  elderly  inquirer  who  was  in  search  of  the 
general  on  a  matter  of  business. 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  What  is  the  effect  of  the  opening-  quotation? 

2.  Point  out  all  the  ways  in  which  the  article  resembles  an  essay. 

3.  Show  that  the  article  does  not  follow  a  strictly  logical  plan. 

4.  Show  in  what  respects  the  article  differs  from  ordinary  magazine 

articles. 

5.  What  characterizes  the  style  of  the  article? 

6.  How  does  the  writer  make  the  article  interesting? 

7.  What  hints  of  the  writer's  personality  does  the  article  give? 

8.  What  does  the  article  say  concerning  the  character  of  Wash- 

ington ? 

9.  Summarize  what  is  said  concerning  Washington  as  a  horseman 
10.  How  much  is  said  about  the  biography  of  Washington? 


Colonel  Humphreys  landed  in  the  ditch,     (page  116) 


WASHINGTON  ON  HORSEBACK 


11? 


SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 


1.  U.  S.  Grant  as  a  Horseman 

2.  Alexander    the    Great    as    a 

Horseman 

3.  Napoleon  as  a  Horseman. 

4.  Abraham  Lincoln  as  a  Story 

Teller 

5.  Longfellow    as    a    Lover   of 

Children 
Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  as  a 

Neighbor 
Henry  David  Thoreau  as  an 

Explorer 
Benjamin    Franklin    as    an 

Originator 
9.  Charles  Lamb  as  a  Brother 


6 


8 


10.  Queen  Elizabeth  as  a  Woman 

11.  William  Morris  as  a  Work- 

man 

12.  Charles  Dickens  as  a  Human- 

itarian 

13.  Shakespeare  as  a  Punster 

14.  Milton  as  a  Husband 

15.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  as  a 

Traveler 

16.  Samuel  Johnson  as  a  Friend 

17.  Jack  London  as  a  Wanderer 

18.  Theodore     Roosevelt     as     a 

Fighter 

19.  Mark  Twain  as  a  Humorist 

20.  Edison  as  an  Inventor 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 


Select  both  a  subject  and  a  theme  in  which  you  are  interested. 
Take  your  note-book  and  consult  encyclopedias,  histories,  and  books 
of  biography,  noting  down  everything  that  has  relation  to  your  par- 
ticular subject  and  theme.  Hunt  especially  for  interesting  anec- 
dotes; if  they  are  humorous, — so  much  the  better. 

You  will  do  well  to  introduce  your  article  with  an  appropriate 
quotation.  Make  your  writing  as  conversational  and  as  anecdotal 
as  possible.    Don't  be  in  the  least  bit  encyclopedic.    Be  gossipy. 


THE  HISTORICAL  STORY 

HAVELOK  THE  DANE 

By  GEORGE  PHILIP  KRAPP 

(1873 — ).  Professor  of  English  in  Columbia  University.  Re 
is  a  member  of  many  scholarly  societies,  and  has  written  much 
on  English.  Among  his  books  are  The  Elements  of  English 
Grammar;  In  Oldest  England;  The  Rise  of  English  Literary 
Prose. 

The  story  of  Havelok  the  Dane  is  one  of  the  oldest  of  English  stories; 
for  the  story  that  is  here  told  is  only  a  re-telling  of  a  narrative  that 
originated  nearly  a  thousand  years  ago.  The  first  story  of  Havelok 
was  probably  written  in  Anglo-Saxon  in  the  eleventh  century  or  in  the 
first  half  of  the  twelfth  century.  It  was  told  in  French  about  1150, 
and  re-told  in  English  about  1300.  Some  critics  find  close  relation 
between  the  story  of  Havelok  and  the  story  of  Hamlet. 

In  all  probability  there  was  a  real  Havelok  who  may  have  lived  in 
the  latter  part  of  the  tenth  century,  and  who  may  have  participated  in 
events  like  those  told  in  the  story.  It  is  probable  that  as  stories  of 
his  romantic  career  were  repeated  they  increased, — just  as  gossip 
increases.  The  facts  became  lost  in  a  body  of  romantic  events.  The 
Havelok  of  the  story  is  therefore  a  character  of  fiction. 

The  story  is  interesting  in  many  ways.  First  of  all,  it  is  a  remarkably 
good  story,  very  human  and  capable  of  awakening  sympathy,  full  of 
quick  event,  centered  around  the  fascinating  subjects  of  youth,  adven- 
ture and  love,  and  picturesque  in  its  details  and  episodes.  Then  it  is 
an  old  story, — ten  centuries  old, — and  is  interesting  as  a  relic  of  the 
past.  In  addition,  it  shows  remarkably  well  what  sort  of  stories 
preceded  the  short  stories  and  the  novels  of  to-day,  and  how  the  old 
stories  sometimes  grew  from  a  mingling  of  fact  and  imagination. 

In  reading  the  story  of  Havelok  the  Dane  we  stand,  as  it  were,  in 
the  presence  of  one  of  the  story  tellers  of  the  extreme  past.  Around 
us  we  feel  castle  walls  and  the  presence  of  rough  fighting  men.  The 
flames  of  the  great  fireplace  flare  on  our  faces,  and  we  listen  with 
childlike  interest. 

Many  years  ago,  in  the  days  of  the  Angles  and  Saxons, 
there  was  once  a  king  of  England  whose  name  was  Athelwold. 
In  that  time  a  traveler  might  bear  fifty  pounds  of  good  red 
gold  on  his  back  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  Eng- 

118 


HAVELOK  THE  DANE  119 

land,  and  no  one  would  dare  molest  him.  Robbers  and  thieves 
were  afraid  to  ply  their  calling,  and  all  wrong-doers  were 
careful  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  King  Athelwold's  officers. 
That  was  a  king  worth  while. 

Now  this  good  King  Athelwold  had  no  heir  to  his  throne 
but  one  young  daughter,  and  Goldborough  was  her  name. 
Unhappily,  when  she  was  just  old  enough  to  walk,  a  heavy 
sickness  fell  upon  King  Athelwold,  and  he  saw  that  his  days 
were  numbered.  He  grieved  greatly  that  his  daughter  was 
not  old  enough  to  rule  and  to  become  queen  of  England  after 
him,  and  called  all  the  lords  and  barons  of  England  to  come 
to  him  at  Winchester  to  consult  concerning  the  welfare  of  his 
kingdom  and  of  his  daughter. 

Finally  it  was  decided  that  Godrich,  Earl  of  Cornwall,  who 
was  one  of  the  bravest,  and,  everybody  said,  one  of  the  truest, 
men  in  all  England,  should  take  charge  of  the  child  Gold- 
borough  and  rule  the  kingdom  for  her  until  she  was  old 
enough  to  be  made  queen.  On  the  Holy  Book,  Earl  Godrich 
swore  to  be  true  to  this  trust  which  he  had  undertaken,  and 
he  also  swore,  as  the  king  commanded,  that  when  Goldborough 
reached  the  proper  age,  he  would  marry  her  to  the  highest, 
the  fairest,  and  the  strongest  man  in  the  kingdom.  When  all 
this  was  done,  the  king's  mind  was  at  rest,  for  he  had  th6 
greatest  faith  in  the  honor  of  Earl  Godrich.  It  was  not  long 
thereafter  that  the  end  came.  There  was  great  grief  at  the 
death  of  the  good  king,  but  Godrich  ruled  in  his  stead  and 
was  the  richest  and  most  powerful  of  all  the  earls  in  England. 
We  shall  say  no  more  about  him  while  Goldborough  is  grow- 
ing older,  and  in  the  end  we  shall  see  whether  Earl  Godrich 
was  true  to  his  trust  and  to  the  promises  he  had  given  to 
Goldborough 's  father. 

Now  it  happened,  at  this  same  time,  that  there  was  a  king 
in  Denmark  whose  name  was  Birkabeyn.  Three  children  he 
had,  who  were  as  dear  to  him  as  life  itself.  One  of  these  was 
a  son  of  five  years,  and  he  was  called  Havelok.  The  other 
two  were  daughters,  and  one  was  named  Swanborough  and 
the  other  Elflad.  Now  when  King  Birkabeyn  most  wished 
to  live,  the  hand  of  death  was  suddenly  laid  upon  him.    As 


120  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

soon  as  he  realized  that  his  days  in  this  life  were  over,  he 
looked  about  for  some  one  to  take  care  of  his  three  young 
children,  and  no  one  seemed  so  fit  for  this  office  as  the  Earl 
Godard.  To  Godard,  therefore,  he  intrusted  the  care  of  his 
three  children,  and  Godard  faithfully  promised  to  guard  them 
until  the  boy  Havelok  was  old  enough  to  become  king  of 
Denmark. 

Scarcely,  however,  was  the  body  of  King  Birkabeyn  laid 
away  in  the  grave,  before  the  faithless  Godard  began  to  plot 
evil,  and  he  determined  to  be  himself  king  of  Denmark.  So 
he  took  Havelok  and  his  two  sisters  and  cast  them  into  prison 
in  a  great  stone  castle. 

In  this  prison  the  poor  little  children  almost  perished  from 
cold  and  hunger,  but  they  little  knew  that  still  worse  mis- 
fortune was  in  store  for  them.  For  one  day  Earl  Godard 
went  to  the  castle  where  they  were  imprisoned,  and  Havelok 
and  his  sisters  fell  on  their  knees  before  him  and  begged  for 
mercy.  "What  do  you  want?"  said  Godard.  "Why  all  this 
weeping  and  howling?"  And  the  children  said  they  were 
very  hungry.  ' '  No  one  comes  to  give  us  of  food  and  drink  the 
half  part  that  we  need.  We  are  so  hungry  that  we  are  well 
nigh  dead." 

When  Godard  heard  this,  his  heart  was  not  touched,  but, 
on  the  contrary,  it  grew  harder  within  him.  He  led  the  two 
little  girls  away  with  him,  and  took  away  the  lives  of  these 
innocent  children;  and  he  intended  to  do  the  same  with 
young  Havelok.  But  the  terrified  boy  again  fell  on  his  knees 
before  Godard  and  cried :  ' '  Have  pity  upon  me,  Earl  Godard ! 
Here  I  offer  homage  to  you.  All  Denmark  I  will  give  to  you 
if  you  will  but  let  me  live.  I  will  be  your  man,  and  against 
you  never  raise  spear  nor  shield." 

Now  when  Godard  heard  this  and  when  he  looked  down  at 
young  Havelok,  the  rightful  heir  to  the  throne  of  Denmark, 
his  arm  grew  weak,  though  his  heart  was  as  hard  as  ever.  He 
knew  that  if  he  was  ever  to  become  king,  Havelok  must  die ; 
but  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  the  point  of  taking  the  life 
of  his  lawful  sovereign. 

So  he  cast  about  in  his  mind  for  some  other  way  to  get  rid 


HAVELOK  THE  DANE  121 

of  him.  He  sent  for  a  poor  fisherman  whose  name  was  Grim. 
Now  Grim  was  Godard's  thrall,  or  slave,  and  was  bound  to  do 
whatever  Godard  asked  of  him.  When  Grim  had  come  to 
him,  Godard  said :  ' '  Thou  knowest,  Grim,  thou  art  my  thrall, 
and  must  do  whatever  I  bid  thee.  To-morrow  thou  shalt  be 
free  and  a  rich  man  if  thou  wilt  take  this  boy  that  I  give  thee 
and  sink  him  to-night  deep  down  in  the  sea.  All  the  sin  I  will 
take  upon  myself. ' ' 

Grim  was  not  a  bad  man,  but  the  promise  of  his  freedom 
was  a  sore  temptation,  and  besides,  Godard,  his  master,  had 
said  that  he  would  be  responsible  for  the  deed.  So  Grim  took 
Havelok,  not  knowing,  of  course,  who  he  was,  and  put  him 
in  a  sack  and  carried  him  off  to  his  little  cottage  by  the 
seashore,  intending  that  night  to  row  out  to  deep  water  and 
throw  him  overboard. 

Now  when  it  came  midnight,  Grim  got  up  from  his  bed, 
and  bade  his  wife,  Dame  Leve,  bring  a  light  for  he  must  go 
out  and  keep  his  promise  to  Earl  Godard.  But  when  Leve 
went  into  the  other  room,  where  Havelok  was  lying  bound 
and  gagged,  what  was  her  surprise  to  see  that  there  was 
already  a  light  in  the  room.  Right  over  Havelok 's  head  it 
seemed  to  stand ;  but  where  it  came  from,  she  could  not  guess. 

"Stir  up,  Grim,"  she  cried,  "and  see  what  this  light  is 
here  in  our  cot!" 

And  Grim  came  running  in,  and  he  too  saw  the  strange 
light  and  was  as  surprised  as  Leve  had  been.  Then  he  un- 
covered Havelok,  and  there  on  his  right  shoulder  he  saw  a 
birthmark,  bright  and  fair,  and  knew  from  this,  right  away, 
that  this  boy  was  Havelok,  the  son  of  King  Birkabeyn.  When 
Grim  realized  this,  he  fell  on  his  knees  before  Havelok  and 
said,  ' '  Have  mercy  on  me  and  on  Leve,  my  wife,  here  by  me ! 
For  thou  art  our  rightful  king  and  therefore  in  everything 
we  should  serve  thee."  Then  when  Grim  had  unbound  him 
and  had  taken  the  gag  out  of  his  mouth,  Havelok  was  a 
happy  boy  again;  and  the  first  thing  he  asked  for  was  some- 
thing to  eat.  And  Dame  Leve  brought  bread  and  cheese,  and 
butter  and  milk  and  cookies  and  cakes,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  many  a  long  day  Havelok  had  all  he  wanted  to  eat.    Then 


122  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

when  Ilavelok  had  satisfied  his  hunger,  Grim  made  a  good 
bed  for  him  and  told  him  to  go  to  sleep  and  to  fear  nothing. 

Now  the  next  morning,  Grim  went  to  the  wicked  traitor 
Godard  and  claimed  his  reward.  But  little  he  knew  the  faith- 
lessness of  Godard. 

"What!"  cried  Godard,  "wilt  thou  now  be  an  earl?  Go 
home,  and  be  as  thou  wert  before,  a  thrall  and  a  churl.  If  I 
ever  hear  of  this  again,  I  will  have  thee  led  to  the  gallows, 
for  thou  hast  done  a  wicked  deed.  Home  with  you,  and  keep 
out  of  my  way,  if  you  know  what  is  good  for  you ! ' ' 

When  Grim  saw  this  new  proof  of  the  wickedness  of  Earl 
Godard,  he  ran  home  as  fast  as  he  could.  He  knew  that  his 
life  was  not  safe  in  Godard 's  hands,  especially  if  the  earl 
should  ever  find  out  that  Havelok  was  still  alive.  Grim  had 
hoped  to  get  money  from  Earl  Godard  with  which  to  escape 
to  some  other  country,  but  now  he  saw  that  he  would  have 
to  depend  on  his  own  means.  Secretly  he  sold  all  that  he  had 
and  when  he  had  got  the  ready  money  for  it,  he  bought  him 
a  ship  and  painted  it  with  tar  and  pitch,  and  fitted  it  out 
with  cables  and  oars  and  a  mast  and  sail.  Not  a  nail  was 
lacking  that  a  good  ship  should  have.  Last  of  all  Grim  put 
in  this  ship  his  good  wife  Dame  Leve,  and  his  three  sons  and 
two  daughters  and  Havelok,  and  off  they  sailed  to  the  open 
ocean.  They  had  not  been  sailing  very  long,  however,  before 
a  wind  came  out  of  the  north  and  drove  them  toward  Eng- 
land. At  the  river  Humber  they  finally  reached  land,  and 
there  on  the  sand  near  Lindesey,  Grim  drew  his  ship  up  on 
the  shore.  A  little  cot  he  straightway  built  for  his  family; 
and  since  this  was  Grim's  home,  the  town  that  gradually  grew 
up  there  in  later  days  came  to  be  named  Grimsby,  and  if  you 
will  look  on  the  map,  you  will  find  that  so  it  is  called  to  this 
very  day. 

Now  Grim  was  a  very  good  fisherman,  and  he  decided  to 
make  his  living  here  in  England  by  fishing.  Many  a  good 
fish  he  took  from  the  sea,  with  net  and  spear  and  hook.  He 
had  four  large  baskets  made,  one  for  himself  and  one  for 
each  of  his  three  sons,  and  when  they  had  caught  their  fish, 
off  they  carried  them  to  the  people  in  the  towns  and  country. 


HAVELOK  THE  DANE  123 

to  sell  them.  Sometimes  they  went  as  far  inland  as  the  good 
town  of  Lincoln. 

Thus  they  lived  peacefully  and  happily  for  ten  years  or 
more,  and  by  this  time  Havelok  was  become  a  youth  full 
grown.  But  Grim  never  told  Havelok  who  he  was,  nor  did 
he  tell  any  of  his  three  sons  or  two  daughters.  And  Havelok 
soon  entirely  forgot  all  about  what  had  happened  to  him  in 
Denmark.  And  so  he  grew  up,  happy  as  the  days  were  long, 
and  astonishingly  healthy  and  strong.  He  was  big  of  bone 
and  broad  of  shoulder  and  the  equal  of  a  man  in  strength. 

Now  after  a  time,  Havelok  began  to  think  to  himself  that 
Grim  was  working  very  hard  to  make  a  living,  while  he  was 
amusing  himself  in  ease  and  idleness.  "Surely,"  said  he  to 
himself,  "I  am  no  longer  a  boy.  I  am  big  and  strong,  and 
alone  I  eat  more  than  Grim  and  his  five  children.  It  's  high 
time  for  me  to  bear  baskets  and  work  for  my  living.  No 
longer  will  I  stay  at  home,  but  to-morrow  I  too  shall  go  forth 
and  sell  fish."  And  so  in  the  morning,  as  soon  as  it  was 
light  of  day,  he  put  a  basket  on  his  back,  as  the  others  did, 
piled  high  with  fish,  as  much  as  a  good  strong  man  might 
carry.  But  Havelok  bore  the  burden  well,  and  he  sold  the  fish 
well,  and  the  money  he  brought  back  home  to  Grim,  every 
penny  of  it.  Thus  Havelok  became  a  fisherman ;  he  went  forth 
every  day  with  his  basket  on  his  back  and  sold  fish,  and  was 
the  tallest  and  strongest  monger  of  them  all. 

Now  it  happened  after  a  time  that  Grim  fared  not  so  well 
with  his  fishing.  The  fish  would  not  come  to  his  nets,  and 
with  no  fish  in  the  nets,  there  was  none  for  the  baskets  and  for 
market.  To  make  matters  worse,  at  this  same  time  there  was  a 
great  famine  in  the  land,  and  poor  people  suffered  greatly 
from  lack  of  food  to  eat.  These  were  hard  times  for  Grim 
and  his  houseful  of  children.  Yet  less  for  his  own  did  Grim 
grieve  than  for  the  sturdy  Havelok.  Moreover,  Grim  had  long 
thought  that  this  work  of  fishing  and  fish-selling,  though 
good  enough  for  himself  and  his  three  sons,  was  hardly  the 
right  life  for  Havelok,  who,  though  he  knew  nothing  about  it, 
was  nevertheless  a  king's  son. 


124  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STOEIES 

"Havelok,  my  boy,"  said  he,  at  length,  "it  is  not  well  for 
thee  to  dwell  here  too  long  with  us.  Though  it  will  grieve  us 
sorely  to  have  thee  go,  out  into  the  world  thou  must  venture, 
and  perhaps  there  thou  shalt  make  thy  fortune.  Here  thou 
seest  we  are  but  miserable  fisher-folk ;  but  at  Lincoln,  the 
fine  city,  there  thou  mayst  find  some  great  man  whom  thou 
canst  serve.  But,  alas!"  he  added,  "so  poor  are  we  that  thou 
hast  not  even  a  coat  wherein  to  go." 

Then  Grim  took  down  the  shears  from  the  nail  and  made 
Havelok  a  coat  out  of  the  sail  to  his  boat,  and  this  was  Grim's 
last  gift  to  Havelok.  No  hose  and  no  shoes  had  Havelok  to 
wear,  but  barefoot  and  naked,  except  for  his  long  coat  of  sail- 
cloth, he  left  his  good  friends  Grim  and  Dame  Leve  and  their 
five  children  and  set  out  for  the  town  of  Lincoln. 

When  Havelok  reached  Lincoln,  he  wandered  about  be- 
wildered in  the  streets  of  the  city.  But  nobody  seemed  to 
have  any  use  for  him;  nobody  wanted  to  exchange  the 
strength  of  his  powerful  arms  for  food  to  eat.  As  he  wan- 
dered from  one  street  to  another,  Havelok  grew  hungrier  and 
hungrier.  By  great  good  chance,  however,  he  passed  by  the 
bridge  where  the  market  was,  and  there  stood  a  great  earl's 
cook,  who  was  buying  fish  and  meat  and  other  food  for  the 
earl's  table.  Now  he  had  just  finished  buying  when  Havelok 
happened  along,  and  the  cook  shouted,  ' '  Porter,  porter ! ' '  for 
somebody  to  come  to  carry  his  marketing  home.  Instantly 
ten  or  a  dozen  jumped  for  the  chance,  for  there  were  plenty 
of  men  looking  for  work  in  Lincoln.  But  Havelok  got  ahead 
of  them  all ;  he  pushed  them  this  way  and  that  and  sent  them 
sprawling  head  over  heels,  and  seized  hold  of  the  cook's 
baskets,  without  so  much  as  a  "By  your  leave."  Rough  and 
ready  was  the  young  Havelok,  as  strong  as  a  bear  and  as 
hungry  as  a  savage.  He  made  quick  time  of  the  journey  to 
the  cook's  kitchen,  and  there  he  was  well  fed  as  pay  for  his 
labor. 

By  the  next  day,  however,  Havelok 's  stomach  was  again 
empty.  But  he  knew  the  time  at  which  the  earl's  cook  came 
to  the  market,  and  he  waited  there  for  him.  Again  when  the 
<iook  had  finished  buying,  he  called  out  "Porter,  porter!" 


HAVELOK  THE  DANE  125 

and  again  the  husky  Havelok  shoved  the  rest  right  and  left 
and  carried  off  the  cook's  baskets.  He  spared  neither  toes  nor 
heels  until  he  came  to  the  earl 's  castle  and  had  put  down  his 
burden  in  the  kitchen. 

Then  the  cook,  whose  name  was  Bertram,  stood  there  and 
looked  at  Havelok  and  laughed.  ' '  This  is  certainly  a  stalwart 
fellow  enough,"  he  thought.  "Will  you  stay  with  me?"  he 
said  finally  to  Havelok.  ' '  I  will  feed  you  well,  and  well  you 
seem  to  be  able  to  pay  for  your  feeding. ' ' 

And  Havelok  was  glad  enough  to  take  the  offer.  "Give 
me  but  enough  to  eat,"  he  answered,  "and  I  will  build  your 
fires  and  carry  your  water,  and  I  can  make  split  sticks  to 
skin  eels  with,  and  cut  wood  and  wash  dishes,  and  do  any- 
thing you  want  me  to  do." 

The  cook  told  Havelok  to  sit  down  and  eat  as  much  as  he 
wanted,  and  you  can  be  sure  Havelok  was  not  slow  in  accept- 
ing this  invitation.  When  he  had  satisfied  his  hunger, 
Havelok  went  out  and  filled  a  large  tub  of  water  for  the 
kitchen,  and,  to  the  cook's  great  astonishment,  he  carried  it 
in,  without  any  help,  in  his  own  two  hands.  Such  a  cook's 
knave  had  never  been  seen  in  that  kitchen  before ! 

So  Havelok  became  a  kitchen-boy  in  a  great  earl's  castle. 
He  was  always  gay  and  laughing,  blithe  of  speech  and 
obliging,  for  he  was  young  and  thoughtless  and  healthy,  and 
happy  so  long  as  he  had  something  to  put  into  his  stomach. 
He  played  with  the  children  and  they  all  loved  him,  for,  with 
all  his  great  strength  and  stature,  he  was  as  gentle  as  the 
gentlest  child  among  them.  And  Bertram,  the  cook,  seeing 
that  Havelok  had  nothing  to  wear  except  his  old  sail-cloth 
coat  that  Grim  had  made  for  him,  bought  Havelok  a  brand- 
new  coat  and  hose  and  shoes ;  and  when  Havelok  was  dressed 
up  in  his  new  clothes,  there  was  not  a  finer  fellow  in  the  whole 
country.  He  stood  head  and  shoulders  above  the  rest  when 
the  youths  came  together  for  their  games  at  Lincoln,  and  no 
one  ever  tried  a  round  at  wrestling  with  Havelok  without 
being  thrown  almost  before  he  knew  it.  He  was  the  tallest 
and  strongest  man  in  all  that  region,  and,  what  was  better, 
he  was  as  good  and  gentle  as  he  was  strong. 


126  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STOKIES 

Now,  as  it  happened,  the  earl  in  whose  kitchen  Havelok 
served  as  kitchen-boy  to  Bertram  the  cook  was  that  very  Earl 
Godrich  to  whom  old  King  Athelwold  had  entrusted  his 
daughter,  Goldborough,  for  protection.  Goldborough  was 
now  a  beautiful  young  princess,  and  Godrich  realized  that 
something  must  soon  be  done  for  her.  But  Godrich  had  be- 
come the  strongest  baron  in  all  England ;  and  though  he  had 
not  forgotten  his  promises  to  Athelwold,  little  did  he  think  to 
let  the  power,  to  which  he  had  grown  so  accustomed,  pass  into 
the  hands  of  another.  For  though  the  beautiful  Goldborough 
was  now  old  enough  to  be  made  queen,  the  traitorous  Godrich 
had  decided  in  his  heart  that  queen  she  should  never  be,  but 
that  when  he  died,  his  son  should  be  made  king  after  him. 

Just  about  this  time  it  happened  that  Earl  Godrich  sum- 
moned a  great  parliament  of  all  the  nobles  of  England  to 
meet  at  Lincoln.  When  the  parliament  met,  there  was  a  great 
throng  of  people  there  from  all  over  England,  and  the  bus- 
tling city  was  very  gay  and  lively.  Many  young  men  came 
thither  with  their  elders,  bent  on  having  a  good  time,  strong 
lads  fond  of  wrestling  and  other  such  games.  Now  these 
young  men  were  amusing  themselves  one  day  in  one  way  and 
another,  and  finally  they  began  to  "put  the  stone."  The 
stone  was  big  and  heavy,  and  it  was  not  every  man  who  could 
lift  it  even  as  high  as  his  knees.  But  these  strong  fellows 
who  had  come  to  Lincoln  in  the  train  of  the  mighty  barons 
could  lift  it  up  and  put  it  a  dozen  or  more  feet  in  front  of 
them ;  and  the  one  who  put  it  the  farthest,  if  it  was  only  an 
inch  ahead  of  the  rest,  he  was  counted  the  champion  at 
putting  the  stone. 

Now  these  stout  lads  were  standing  around  and  boasting 
about  the  best  throws,  and  Havelok  stood  by  listening.  He 
knew  nothing  about  putting  the  stone,  for  he  had  never  done 
it  or  seen  it  done  before.  But  his  master,  Bertram  the  cook, 
was  also  there,  and  he  insisted  that  Havelok  should  have  a 
try  at  it.  So  Havelok  took  up  the  great  stone,  and  at  the  first 
throw,  he  put  it  a  foot  and  more  beyond  the  best  throw  of  the 
others. 

The  news  of  Havelok 's  record  throw  in  some  way  spread 


HAVELOK  THE  DANE  127 

abroad,  how  he  had  beaten  all  these  strong  lads,  and  how  tall 
and  powerful  he  was.  And  finally  the  knights  in  the  great 
hall  of  the  castle  began  speaking  of  it,  and  Earl  Godrich 
listened,  for  he  had  suddenly  thought  of  a  way  to  keep  his 
promise.  In  a  word,  it  was  this:  King  Athelwold  had  made 
him  swear  on  the  Holy  Book  that  he  would  give  his  daughter 
in  marriage  to  the  highest  and  strongest  in  the  realm  of 
England.  Now  where  could  he  find  a  higher  and  stronger 
than  this  Havelok?  He  would  marry  the  king's  daughter  to 
this  kitchen-boy,  and  thus,  though  in  a  way  that  the  old  king 
never  dreamed  of,  he  would  keep  his  promise  and  still  leave 
the  road  free  for  himself  and  his  son  after  him. 

Godrich  straightway  sent  for  Goldborough,  and  told  her 
that  he  had  found  a  husband  for  her,  the  tallest  and  fairest 
man  in  all  England.  And  Goldborough  answered  that  no 
man  should  wed  her  unless  he  was  a  king  or  a  king's  heir. 

At  this  Godrich  grew  very  angry.  "Thou  shalt  marry 
whom  I  please!"  he  commanded.  "Dost  thou  think  thou 
shalt  be  queen  and  lady  over  me?  I  will  choose  a  husband 
for  thee.  To-morrow  shalt  thou  wed  my  cook's  kitchen-boy 
and  none  other,  and  he  shall  be  lord  over  thee." 

Goldborough  wept  and  prayed ;  but  she  could  not  turn 
Godrich  from  his  shameful  purpose. 

Then  Godrich  sent  for  Havelok,  and  when  he  had  come 
before  him,  he  said,  "Fellow,  do  you  want  a  wife?" 

"Nay,  truly,"  said  Havelok,  "no  wife  for  me!  What 
should  I  do  with  a  wife?  I  have  neither  clothing  nor  shoes 
nor  food  for  her,  neither  house  nor  home  to  put  her  in.  I 
own  not  a  stick  in  the  world,  and  even  the  coat  I  bear  on  my 
back  belongs  to  Bertram  the  cook." 

But  Godrich  told  Havelok  he  must  marry  the  wife  he  had 
chosen  for  him,  willy-nilly,  or  he  should  suffer  for  it.  And 
finally  Havelok,  for  fear  of  his  life,  consented,  and  Gold- 
borough was  sent  for,  and  the  Archbishop  of  York  came,  and 
soon  they  were  married,  one  as  unwilling  as  the  other. 

But  when  the  wedding  was  over,  and  gifts  had  been  given 
to  Goldborough,  rich  and  plenty,  Havelok  was  perplexed. 
He  beheld  the  beauty  of  Goldborough  and  was  afraid  to  re- 


128  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

main  at  Godrich's  castle  for  fear  of  treachery  that  might 
befall  her.  For  Goldborough  now  had  only  Havelok  to  pro- 
tect her,  since  the  kitchen-boy  had  become  her  lord  and  mas- 
ter, and  Havelok,  with  a  man's  courage,  determined  to  de- 
fend her  to  the  best  of  his  ability.  The  first  thing  to  do,  as 
it  seemed  to  him,  was  to  go  back  to  Grim's  cottage,  there  to 
think  over  the  matter  carefully  before  acting  further.  And 
straightway,  in  company  with  Goldborough,  he  set  out  se- 
cretly for  the  little  cot  by  the  seashore. 

"When  Havelok  and  Goldborough  came  to  Grim's  house, 
he  found  that  there  had  been  many  sad  changes  during  the 
time  he  had  been  living  in  Lincoln.  In  the  first  place,  the 
good  Grim  had  died,  and  also  his  wife,  Dame  Leve.  But  the 
three  sons  of  Grim  and  his  two  daughters  were  still  living  at 
Grimsby,  and  they  still  caught  the  fish  of  the  sea  and  carried 
them  about  in  baskets  to  sell  them.  The  oldest  of  these  sons 
was  called  Robert  the  Red,  and,  of  the  remaining  two,  one 
was  named  William  Wendout,  and  Hugh  the  Raven  the  other. 
They  were  filled  with  joy  when  they  found  that  their  foster- 
brother,  Havelok,  had  come  back  to  them,  and  they  prepared 
a  fine  dinner  for  him  and  Goldborough.  And  Robert  the  Red 
begged  Havelok  now  to  stay  with  them  at  Grimsby  and  be 
their  chief  and  leader.  They  promised  to  serve  him  faith- 
fully, and  their  two  sisters  were  eager  to  care  for  all  the 
needs  of  Goldborough,  his  wife.  But  for  the  time  being, 
Havelok  put  them  off,  for  he  had  not  yet  decided  what  would 
be  the  best  course  for  him  to  follow. 

Now  that  night,  as  Goldborough  lay  awake,  sad  and  sorrow- 
ful, she  was  suddenly  aware  of  a  bright  light,  surrounding, 
as  it  seemed,  the  head  of  the  sleeping  Havelok.  Then  at  the 
same  time,  there  came  a  voice,  she  could  not  tell  whence, 
which  said  to  her :  ' '  Goldborough,  be  no  longer  sorrowful,  for 
Havelok,  who  hath  wedded  thee,  is  a  king's  son  and  heir. 
Upon  his  shoulder  he  bears  a  royal  birthmark  to  prove  it. 
The  day  shall  come  when  he  will  be  king  both  in  Denmark 
and  in  England,  and  thou  shalt  be  of  both  realms  queen  and 
lady." 


HAVELOK  THE  DANE  129 

Now  just  at  this  same  time,  Havelok  dreamed  a  strange 
dream ;  and  when  he  awoke,  he  told  his  dream  to  Goldborough. 
He  dreamed  that  he  was  sitting  on  a  high  hill  in  Denmark, 
and  when  he  stretched  out  his  arms,  they  were  so  long  that 
they  reached  to  the  farthest  limits  of  the  land ;  and  when  he 
drew  his  arms  together  to  his  breast,  everything  in  Denmark, 
all  the  towns,  and  the  country,  and  the  lordly  castles,  all 
cleaved  to  his  arms  and  were  drawn  into  his  embrace.  Then 
he  dreamed  that  he  passed  over  the  salt  sea  with  a  great  host 
of  Danish  warriors  to  England,  and  that  all  England  like- 
wise came  into  his  power. 

When  Goldborough  heard  this  dream,  she  thought  straight- 
way of  the  strange  light  she  had  seen  over  Havelok 's  head 
and  the  voice  that  she  had  heard,  and  she  interpreted  it  to 
mean  that  Havelok  should  be  king  over  Denmark  and  after- 
ward over  England. 

She  knew  not  how  this  should  come  to  pass,  but  unhesitat- 
ingly advised  Havelok  to  prepare  to  set  sail  for  Denmark. 
Her  plan  was  this:  that  they  should  buy  a  ship,  and  take 
Grim's  three  sons,  Robert  the  Red,  William  Wendout,  and 
Hugh  the  Raven,  with  them,  and,  when  they  came  to  Den- 
mark, pretend  that  they  were  merchants  until  they  could 
find  out  what  course  to  follow.  And  when  this  plan  was  told 
to  the  three  sons  of  Grim,  they  immediately  agreed  to  it,  for 
they  were  ready  to  follow  Havelok  wherever  he  went.  And 
now,  also,  Havelok  for  the  first  time  learned  who  his  father 
was,  and  that  he  was  really  heir  to  the  throne  of  Denmark. 
For  Grim,  before  he  left  Denmark,  had  told  all  of  Havelok 's 
story  to  a  cousin  of  his,  and  she  now,  for  she  was  still  alive 
and  had  come  to  stay  with  Grim's  family  at  Grimsby,  told 
Havelok  all  about  Earl  Godard's  treachery.  Happy  indeed 
was  Goldborough  when  she  heard  this  story,  and  they  were 
all  more  anxious  than  ever  to  set  out  for  Denmark.  They 
got  a  good  ship  ready,  and  it  was  not  long  before  all  were  well 
on  their  way. 

When  the  ship  reached  Denmark,  they  all  went  up  on  land 
and  journeyed  forth  until  they  came  to  the  castle  of  the  great 
Danish  baron,  Earl  Ubbe.    Now  Ubbe  had  been  a  good  friend 


130  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

of  Havelok's  father,  the  former  King  Birkabeyn,  and  a  good 
man  and  true  was  he.  When  they  reached  Ubbe's  castle, 
Havelok  sent  word  that  they  were  merchants,  come  to  trade 
in  Ubbe's  country,  and,  as  a  present,  he  sent  in  to  Ubbe  a 
gold  ring  with  a  precious  stone  in  the  setting. 

When  Ubbe  had  received  this  generous  gift,  he  sent  for 
Havelok  to  come  to  see  him.  When  the  young  man  came, 
Ubbe  was  greatly  struck  by  Havelok's  broad  shoulders  and 
sturdy  frame,  and  he  said  to  himself :  ' '  What  a  pity  that  this 
chapman  is  not  a  knight!  He  seems  better  fitted  to  wear  a 
helmet  on  his  head  and  bear  a  shield  and  spear  than  to  buy 
and  sell  wares. ' '  But  he  said  nothing  of  this  to  Havelok,  and 
only  invited  him  to  come  and  dine  in  the  castle  and  to  bring 
his  wife,  Goldborough,  with  him.  And  Ubbe  promised  that 
no  dishonor  should  be  done  either  to  one  or  the  other,  and 
pledged  himself  as  their  protector.  And  when  the  dinner 
was  over,  Ubbe,  who  had  taken  a  great  liking  to  both  Havelok 
and  Goldborough,  entrusted  them  to  the  safe-keeping  of  one 
of  his  retainers,  a  stout  and  doughty  warrior  whose  name  was 
Bernard  the  Brown.  To  Bernard 's  house,  therefore,  Havelok 
and  Goldborough  went,  and  there  too  were  lodged  Robert  the 
Red  and  William  Wendout  and  Hugh  the  Raven. 

Now  when  they  had  reached  Bernard's  house,  and  Bernard 
and  Havelok  and  Goldborough  were  sitting  there  peacefully  at 
supper,  the  house  was  suddenly  attacked  by  a  band  of  fierce 
robbers.  Travelers  were  not  as  safe  in  Denmark  as  they  were 
in  England  in  the  daj^s  of  the  strong  King  Athelwold,  and 
these  robbers,  thinking  that  Havelok  must  be  a  very  rich  man, 
since  he  had  given  so  valuable  a  ring  to  the  Earl  Ubbe,  were 
come  now,  a  greedy  gang,  to  see  if  they  could  get  hold  of 
some  of  his  treasure.  Before  Bernard  and  his  guests  were 
aware  of  them,  the  robbers  had  reached  the  door,  and  they 
shouted  to  Bernard  to  let  them  in  or  they  would  kill  him. 
But  the  valiant  Bernard  recalled  that  his  guests  were  in  his 
safe-keeping ;  and  shouting  back  that  the  robbers  would  have 
to  get  in  before  they  could  kill  him,  he  jumped  up  and  put 
on  his  coat  of  mail  and  seized  an  ax  and  leaped  to  the  door- 
way.    Already  the  robbers  were  battering  at  the  door,  and 


HAVELOK  THE  DANE  131 

they  took  a  huge  boulder  and  let  it  fly  against  the  door,  so 
that  it  shivered  to  splinters.  Then  Havelok  mixed  in  the  fray. 
He  seized  a  heavy  wooden  door-tree,  which  was  used  to  bar 
the  door,  and  when  the  robbers  tried  to  break  through  the 
door,  he  laid  on  right  and  left.  It  was  not  long  before 
Robert  and  William  and  Hugh,  in  the  other  part  of  the 
house,  heard  the  din  and  came  rushing  up ;  and  then  the  fight 
was  on,  fast  and  furious.  Robert  seized  an  oar  and  William 
and  Hugh  had  great  clubs,  and  these,  with  Bernard's  ax  and 
Havelok 's  door-tree,  made  it  lively  enough  for  the  robbers. 
But  especially  Havelok  and  his  door-tree  made  themselves  felt 
there.  The  robbers,  for  all  they  were  well  armed  with  shields 
and  good  long  swords,  were  compelled  to  give  way  before  the 
flail-like  strokes  of  Havelok 's  door-tree.  When  they  saw  their 
comrades  falling  right  and  left,  those  that  were  still  able  to 
do  so  took  to  their  legs  and  ran  away.  Some  harm  they  did, 
however,  while  the  fray  lasted,  for  Havelok  had  a  severe 
sword-wound  in  his  side,  and  from  several  other  gashes  the 
blood  was  flowing  freely. 

In  the  morning,  when  Bernard  the  Brown  told  Ubbe  of  the 
attacks  of  the  robbers,  Ubbe  swore  that  he  would  bring  them 
to  punishment;  and  he  also  took  further  measures  to  protect 
Havelok.  When  he  heard  that  Havelok  was  wounded,  he  had 
him  brought  to  his  own  castle  and  gave  him  a  room  right  next 
to  his  own. 

Now  that  night,  when  Havelok  lay  asleep  in  his  room  and 
Ubbe  in  the  room  next  to  it,  about  the  middle  of  the  night 
Ubbe  was  awakened,  and  thought  he  saw  a  light  on  the  other 
side  of  the  door.  ' '  What  's  this  ? "  he  said  to  himself.  ' '  What 
mischief  are  they  up  to  in  there?"  And  he  got  up  to  see  if 
everything  was  all  right  with  his  new  friend  the  chapman. 

Now  when  Ubbe  peeped  through  a  crack  in  the  door,  he 
saw  a  strange  sight.  For  there  was  Havelok  peacefully  sleep- 
ing, and  over  his  head  there  gleamed  the  miraculous  light 
that  Goldborough  had  seen  and  that  had  caused  Grim  to  spare 
his  life  when  he  was  a  little  child.  And  looking  closer,  Ubbe 
saw  something  more.  For  the  cover  was  thrown  back,  and  he 
saw  on  Havelok '5?  shoulder  the  royal  birthmark,  and  he  knew 


132  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

immediately  that  this  was  the  son  of  his  old  friend  and  king, 
Birkabeyn,  and  the  rightful  heir  to  the  throne  of  Denmark. 
Eagerly  he  broke  open  the  door  and  ran  in  and  fell  on  his 
knees  beside  Havelok,  acknowledging  him  as  his  lawful  lord. 

As  soon  as  Havelok  realized  that  he  was  not  dreaming,  he 
saw  that  good  fortune  had  at  last  put  him  in  the  way  of 
winning  back  his  rights. 

And  it  had  indeed,  for  Ubbe  immediately  set  to  work  get- 
ting together  an  army  for  Havelok.  It  was  not  long  before 
Havelok  had  a  fine  body  of  fighters  ready  to  follow  wherever 
he  led  them,  and  then  he  thought  it  was  time  to  seek  out  his 
old  enemy,  Earl  Godard.  Before  this,  however,  there  was 
another  thing  to  be  done,  and  that  was  to  make  knights  of 
Robert  and  William  and  Hugh.  They  were  given  the  stroke 
on  the  shoulder  with  the  flat  of  the  sword  by  Earl  Ubbe  and 
thus  were  dubbed  knights.  They  were  granted  land  and 
other  fee,  and  they  became  as  brave  and  powerful  barons  as 
any  in  Denmark. 

When  Havelok  had  his  plans  all  made,  he  set  out  to  find 
Earl  Godard.  It  was  Robert  the  Red  who  had  the  good 
fortune  first  to  meet  with  him.  But  Godard  was  no  coward, 
and  was  not  to  be  taken  without  struggle  for  his  freedom.  He 
defended  himself  as  best  he  could,  but  his  followers  soon 
became  frightened  and  took  to  their  heels,  leaving  the 
wretched  Godard  a  helpless  prisoner  in  the  hands  of  Robert. 
Havelok  was  glad  enough  to  have  Godard  in  his  power  at 
last,  but  he  made  no  effort  to  punish  Godard  for  the  injuries 
he  had  done  to  him  personally.  It  was  as  a  traitor  to  his 
king  and  his  country  that  Godard  was  now  held  prisoner. 
When  the  time  of  the  trial  came,  by  the  judgment  of  his  peers, 
Godard  was  convicted  of  treason  and  sentence  of  death  was 
passed  upon  him. 

When  peace  had  again  been  restored  throughout  Denmark, 
then  the  people  all  joyfully  accepted  Havelok  as  their  king 
and  the  beautiful  Goldborough  as  their  queen. 

One  thing  still  remained  for  Havelok  to  do  in  England 
after  affairs  had  all  been  settled  in  Denmark — there  still 
remained  an  accounting  with  Earl  Godrich.    And  so,  as  soon 


HAVELOK  THE  DANE  133 

as  he  had  got  his  army  together,  Havelok  and  Goldborough 
went  on  board  ship  and  sailed  over  the  sea,  and  soon  they 
were  again  back  at  Grimsby.  The  earl  was  ready  for  him, 
too,  for  he  had  heard  of  Havelok 's  arrival  in  England,  and 
he  thought  he  could  make  quick  work  of  his  former  kitchen- 
boy.  But  Havelok  the  man,  with  a  Danish  army  at  his  back, 
was  a  quite  different  person  from  Havelok  the  boy,  who  car- 
ried the  cook's  baskets  from  market  and  distinguished  himself 
only  by  his  record  at  putting  the  stone.  And  this  difference 
Earl  Godrich  was  soon  to  discover. 

It  was  Ubbe,  this  time,  who  had  the  first  meeting  with 
Godrich.  Ubbe  claimed  Godrich  as  his  prisoner,  but  Godrich 
immediately  drew  his  sword  in  self-defense.  They  fought 
long  and  fiercely,  and  Godrich  was  decidedly  getting  the 
better  of  it,  when  Havelok  fortunately  appeared  upon  the 
scene.  Havelok  demanded  that  Godrich  should  yield  himself 
as  his  prisoner,  but  for  answer  Godrich  only  rushed  at 
Havelok  all  the  more  fiercely  with  his  drawn  sword,  and  so 
violent  was  his  attack,  that  he  succeeded  in  wounding  Have- 
lok. At  this,  Havelok 's  patience  gave  out,  and  exerting  all 
his  powerful  strength,  in  a  short  time  he  overcame  Godrich 
and  disarmed  him  and  bound  him  hand  and  foot.  Then 
Havelok  had  Godrich  carried  before  a  jury  of  his  peers  in 
England,  where  he  was  made  to  answer  to  the  charge  of 
treason,  just  as  Godard  had  been  made  to  do  in  Denmark. 

All  the  English  barons  acknowledged  that  Goldborough 
was  their  true  queen,  and  that  Godrich  was  a  tyrant  and 
usurper.  And  since  not  only  plain  justice,  but  also  the 
welfare  of  the  kingdom,  demanded  it,  the  barons  passed  the 
sentence  of  death  upon  the  traitorous  Earl  Godrich.  With 
much  feasting  and  celebration,  Havelok  and  Goldborough 
were  taken  in  triumph  to  London,  and  there  were  crowned 
king  and  queen  of  England.  Thus  Goldborough 's  dream  had 
come  to  pass,  for  she  was  now  queen  and  lady  and  Havelok 
was  lord  and  king  over  both  Denmark  and  England. 

But  since  Havelok  could  not  be  in  both  countries  at  one 
time,  and  since  his  Danish  friends  were  eager  to  get  back 
again  to  Denmark,  now  that  their  work  in  England  was  fin- 


134  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

ished,  Havelok  made  Ubbe  ruler  over  Denmark  in  his  place, 
and  he  remained  in  England.  Moreover  there  were  other  old 
friends  who  were  also  richly  deserving  of  reward.  Of  these, 
one  was  Bertram  the  cook,  Havelok 's  former  master,  who 
had  fed  him  when  he  was  starving.  Bertram  was  made  a 
rich  baron,  and  he  was  married  to  one  of  Grim's  daughters, 
who  were  still  living  at  Grimsby,  but  who,  of  course,  had  now 
become  great  ladies.  The  other  daughter  was  married  to 
Reynes,  Earl  of  Chester,  who  was  a  brave  young  bachelor  and 
glad  enough  to  get  so  beautiful  and  so  highly  favored  a  wife 
as  Havelok  gave  him.  Robert  the  Red  and  William  Wendout 
and  Hugh  the  Raven  all  remained  in  England,  where  they 
married  rich  and  beautiful  wives,  and  became  Havelok 's 
right-hand  men  in  the  good  government  of  the  country. 

And  you  can  be  sure  the  country  was  now  again  well 
governed.  As  in  the  days  of  the  good  King  Athelwold,  a 
traveler  might  bear  a  bag  full  of  red  gold  on  his  shoulder 
from  one  end  of  England  to  the  other,  and  be  as  safe  as 
though  he  were  guarded  by  an  army  of  soldiers.  Loved  by 
their  subjects  and  feared  by  their  enenr.es,  thus  in  peace  and 
contentment  King  Havelok  and  Queen  Goldborough  dwelt 
together  many  a  long  year  in  England,  and  their  children 
grew  up  around  them.  They  had  passed  through  their  trials 
and  tribulations,  and  at  last  only  good  days  were  in  store  for 
them. 

This  is  the  end. 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  What   advantage  does  the  author  gain  by  using  a  somewhat 

archaic  style? 

2.  Why  does  he  tell  the  story  with  almost  the  same  simplicity  that 

marks  the  original  story? 

3.  What  events  show  the  character  of  Havelok? 

4.  What  is  the  character  of  Grim  ? 

5.  What  is  the  character  of  Goldborouerh? 

6.  In  what  respects  are  Carl  God  rich  and  Earl  Godard  alike? 

7.  Show  that  the  story  is  like  some  of  the  familiar  nursery  legends. 


HAVELOK  THE  DANE  135 

8.  Outline  the  principal  events  of  the  narrative. 

9.  Which  events  are  most  impressive? 

10.  Point  out  local  allusions  in  the  story. 

11.  In  what  respects  is  Havelok  truly  royal? 

12.  Point  out  any  uses  of  the  supernatural. 

13.  Is  Bertram  a  realistic  or  a  romantic  character? 

14.  Point  out  exceedingly  human  touches  in  the  story. 

15.  Point  out  the  emphasis  of  noble  characteristics. 

16.  Show  how  description  adds  to  the  effectiveness  of  the  story. 

17.  Show  how  the  story  resembles  other  stories  you  have  read. 

18.  What  reasons  have  made  the  story  Live  for  a  thousand  years? 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 

1.  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  11.  Robinson  Crusoe 

2.  Washington's  Boyhood  12.  Rip  Van  Winkle 

3    The  Story  of  Treasure  Island  13.  The  Story  of  Portia 

4.  The  Story  of  Ivanhoe  14.  The  Story  of  Rosalind 

5.  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal  15.  The  Story  of  Viola 

6.  Lancelot  and  Elaine  16.  Silas  Marner 

7.  Robin  Hood  and  His  Men  17.  The  Ancient  Mariner 

8.  Huckleberry  Finn  18.  The  Black  Knight 

9.  Tom  Sawyer  19.  King  Arthur 
10.  Ben  Hur  20.  Joan  of  Arc 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

You  are  to  re-tell  an  old  story.  Select  one  with  which  you  are 
entirely  familiar.  Tell  it  very  simply  and  plainly,  but  try  very  hard 
to  give  it  the  quality  of  human  interest.  Make  your  readers  sympa- 
thize with  your  hero  and  heroine.  Tell  a  number  of  dramatie 
episodes,  selecting  those  that  do  most  to  emphasize  character.  Make 
your  story  move  very  quickly,  and  make  its  action  very  vivid  and 
intense.    Give  emphasis  to  good  characteristics. 


THE  STORY  ESSAY 
POLITICS  UP  TO  DATE 

By  FREDERICK  LEWIS  ALLEN 

(1890 — ).  A  contributor  to  many  magazines.  At  different 
times  he  served  as  Instructor  in  English  at  Harvard,  and  as  a 
member  of  the  editorial  staff  of  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  and  of 
The  Century. 

The  short  story  and  the  essay  may  be  combined  in  what  may  be  called 
the  story-essay  or  the  dialogue-essay.  Many  of  Addison's  Sir  Roger  de 
Coverley  essays  illustrate  such  a  combination. 

Politics  Up  To  Date  is  really  a  critical  essay,  directed  against  certain 
tendencies  in  political  campaigns  in  the  United  States,  but  it  is  pre- 
sented in  the  form  of  a  dialogue  between  a  young  politician  and  an  old 
politician.     It  is  very  effective  in  its  satire. 

' '  So  you  've  come  to  me  for  advice,  have  you  ? ' '  said  the  Old 
Politician  to  the  Young  Politician.  "You  want  to  know  how 
to  succeed  in  politics,  do  you?" 

The  Young  Politician  inclined  his  head. 

"I  do,"  he  replied.    "Will  you  tell  me?" 

The  Old  Politician  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Times  change,"  he  said  at  last,  "and  I  dare  say  there  are 
new  issues  now  in  politics  that  there  weren't  in  the  good  old 
days.  The  technic  is  somewhat  different,  too.  However,  the 
basic  principles  remain  the  same,  and,  after  all,  the  issues 
don't  really  matter;  it's  what  you  say  about  them  that 
counts,  and  I  can  tell  you  what  to  say  about  them.  Very 
well,  I  '11  advise  you.  First  of  all,  if  you  're  running  for 
office  in  these  days,  you  must  run  as  a  hundred-per-cent. 
American  candidate." 

The  Young  Politician's  eye  clouded  with  perplexity. 

"What  is  Americanism,"  he  asked,  "and  how  does  one 
figure  it  on  a  percentage  basis?" 

136 


POLITICS  UP  TO  DATE  137 

The  Old  Politician  brought  down  his  fist  on  the  table  with 
a  crash. 

"You  aspire  to  political  office,  and  ask  questions  like  that!" 
he  exclaimed  in  a  voice  of  wrath.  "Never  question  what 
hundred-per-cent.  Americanism  is,  even  to  yourself.  If  you 
do,  somebody  else  will  question,  too.  Nothing  could  be  more 
fatal.  Don't  try  to  define  it;  assert  it.  Say  you  're  hundred 
per  cent,  and  your  opponent  isn't.  Intimate  that  if  George 
Washington,  Thomas  Jefferson,  and  Abraham  Lincoln  went 
over  your  opponent  with  a  slide  rule  and  an  adding-machine, 
they  could  n  't  make  him  add  up  to  more  than  ninety-nine  per 
cent.  If  he  's  out  for  a  seven-cent  fare  or  a  new  set  of 
municipal  waterworks,  tell  the  people  that  such  things  are 
un-American.  Say  that  he  's  dodging  the  issue,  and  the  issue 
is  Americanism."  He  paused.  "If  you  were  my  opponent, 
and  asked  what  Americanism  is,  I  'd  double  you  up.  '  Think 
of  it,  my  fellow-citizens !  He  does  n  't  even  know  what 
Americanism  is !  Is  that  the  kind  of  man  to  hold  office  in  the 
country  of  Washington  and  Lincoln?'  " 

The  Young  Politician  looked  round  uneasily  to  make  sure 
that  they  were  indeed  alone,  for  the  Old  Politician  was  almost 
shouting. 

"Please,"  said  the  Young  Politician,  "not  so  loud.  I  won't 
ask  that  question  again.  I  see  your  point.  What  else  do 
you  advise?" 

"You  must  learn,"  continued  the  Old  Politician,  "to  be  a 
good  denouncer." 

"A  good  what?" 

"Denouncer.  Keep  your  eyes  open  for  objects  of  popular 
disapproval,  and  when  you  're  sure  you  've  got  hold  of  some- 
thing that  is  heartily  disapproved  by  the  great  majority  of 
the  people,  denounce  it.  At  present  I  should  advise  you  to 
denounce  the  high  cost  of  living,  the  profiteers,  and  the  Bol- 
shevists. Next  year,  of  course,  the  list  may  be  quite  different, 
but  for  the  present  those  three  are  the  best  objects  of  de- 
nunciation." 

"What  bothers  me,"  suggested  the  Young  Politician  in  a 
hesitating  voice,  ' '  is  that  it  may  be  rather  hard  to  drag  those 


138  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

things  into  the  campaign.  Suppose,  for  example,  I  'm 
pledged  to  broaden  the  Main  Street  of  the  city  upon  my 
election  to  the  city  council.  Won't  it  be  rather  hard  to  tie  the 
Main  Street  and  the  Bolshevists  together?" 

The  Old  Politician  looked  upon  the  troubled  face  of  the 
Young  Politician  with  disgust. 

"You  're  a  great  politician,  you  are,"  he  said  wearily. 
"Tie  them  together?  Don't  be  so  ridiculously  logical."  He 
rose  to  his  feet,  and  as  he  did  so  he  smote  the  table  once  more 
with  his  fist.  "Gen-tle-men,"  he  cried  hoarsely,  surveying 
an  imaginary  audience  with  his  glittering  eye,  "there  is  a 
movement  on  foot  in  this  very  county,  this  very  State,  nay, 
this  very  city,  to  undermine  our  Congress,  to  topple  over  the 
Constitution,  to  put  a  bomb  under  our  President!  Con- 
fronted by  such  a  menace  to  our  democratic  institutions, 
what,  gentlemen,  shall  be  our  answer?  Let  us  broaden  Main 
Street,  as  Washington  would  have  broadened  it,  as  Lincoln 
would  have  broadened  it,  and  let  us  put  down  the  red  flag 
wherever  it  shows  its  head!" 

'Its  mast,"  corrected  the  Young  Politician,  visibly  moved. 
"Thc*nk  you  for  those  courageous,  those  hundred-per-cent. 
words.  I  shall  try  to  strike  that  note.  But  there  is  something 
else  I  want  to  ask.  Suppose  I  am  elected.  What  shall  I  do 
while  I  hold  office  in  order  that  I  may  become  ultimately 
eligible  for  still  higher  office?" 

"In  that  case,"  replied  the  old  man,  who  by  this  time  had 
'subsided  into  his  chair,  "you  must  not  merely  denounce  the 
high  cost  of  living,  the  profiteers,  and  the  Bolshevists;  you 
must  campaign  against  them." 

"But  suppose  I  am  a  commissioner  of  roads  or  an  attorney- 
general,"  queried  the  Young  Politician.  "In  that  case, 
clearly  such  things  lie  outside  my  province.  How  can  I 
campaign  against  them?" 

"My  dear  young  man,"  said  the  Old  Politician,  with  a 
weary  smile,  "don't  bother  about  your  province,  as  you  call 
it.  Your  job  will  undoubtedly  be  uninteresting  and  the 
public  won't  know  anything  about  it  or  care  anything  about 


POLITICS  UP  TO  DATE  139 

it,  and  the  test  of  your  success  will  be  your  ability  to  conduct 
campaigns  which  have  nothing  to  do  with  your  job,  and 
therefore  stand  some  chance  of  interesting  the  public.  There 
is  no  reason  why  even  an  attorney-general  should  n  't  cam- 
paign against  anything,  provided  he  handle  his  campaign 
right. 

"The  principal  thing  to  bear  in  mind  is  that  you  must 
begin  your  campaigns  noisily  and  end  them  so  quietly  that  the 
sound  of  their  ending  is  drowned  in  the  noise  of  the  next 
campaign's  beginning.  Let  's  say  you  begin  with  a  campaign 
against  the  high  cost  of  living.  First  come  out  with  a  state- 
ment that  you,  as  attorney-general  or  commissioner  of  roads 
or  what  not,  are  going  to  knock  the  high  cost  of  living  to  bits, 
and  the  whole  force  of  the  Government  will  be  behind  you. 
That  will  put  you  on  the  front  page  once.  Then  send  out 
telegrams  calling  a  conference  to  take  steps  against  the  cost 
of  living.  That  will  put  you  on  the  front  page  again.  Then 
when  the  conference  meets,  address  them,  and  tell  them 
they  've  got  to  make  conditions  better,  simply  got  to.  By  the 
way,  you  ought  to  have  a  couple  of  able  secretaries  to  help 
you  with  these  speeches,  or,  better  still,  to  do  the  routine 
work  of  your  office  so  that  there  will  be  nothing  to  divert  your 
mind  from  your  campaigns.  Then,  after  you  have  the  con- 
ference well  started,  step  out.  Don't  stay  with  them;  they 
may  begin  asking  you  for  constructive  ideas.  Step  clear  of 
the  thing,  and  start  a  new  campaign. 

"I  can't  over-emphasize  the  fact  that  when  the  conference 
is  well  started,  you  must  help  the  public  to  forget  about  it, 
and  stir  up  interest  in  something  new.  Flay  the  profiteer 
for  a  month  or  two,  and  get  a  conference  going  on  profiteers. 
Rap  the  Bolshevists,  and  telegraph  for  a  crowd  of  citizens  to 
come  and  probe  the  Bolshevists  while  you  're  deciding  what 
your  next  campaign  shall  be.  Don't  let  the  people's  minds 
run  back  to  the  high  cost  of  living,  or  they  '11  be  likely  to 
notice  that  it  hasn't  gone  down.  Refer  constantly  to  the 
success  of  your  own  campaigns,  and  keep  the  public  mind 
moving. ' ' 


140  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

The  Young  Politician  was  visibly  impressed,  but  appar- 
ently a  doubt  still  lingered  in  his  mind. 

"There  's  one  thing  I  'm  afraid  I  don't  quite  understand," 
he  said  at  last.  "All  this  denouncing  and  rapping  and  prob- 
ing— isn't  it  likely  to  look  rather  destructive?  "Will  people 
want  to  vote  for  a  man  whose  pleasantest  mood  is  one  of. 
indignation  ? " 

"My  dear  young  man,"  replied  the  Old  Politician,  "I  fear 
that  you  misunderstood  me.  A  politician  must  be  always 
pleasant  to  the  people  who  are  about  him,  and  denounce  only 
persons  who  are  not  present.  You  should  compliment  your 
audience  when  speaking.  Be  sure  to  make  the  right  speech 
in  the  right  place;  don't  get  off  your  profiteer  speech  to  the 
Merchants'  Association,  or  they  may  begin  to  wonder  whether 
they  agree  with  you,  but  draw  their  hearts  to  yours  with  your 
anti-Bolshevik  speech ;  assure  them  that  you  and  they  are 
going  to  save  the  nation  from  red  ruin.  Denunciation  is 
pleasant  if  it  's  somebody  else  who  is  getting  denounced.  Tell 
the  merchants  or  the  newspaper  publishers  or  the  party  com- 
mitteemen, or  whoever  it  is  that  you  are  addressing,  that  they 
are  the  most  important  element  in  the  community  and  that 
the  war  could  not  have  been  won  if  they  had  not  stepped 
forward  to  a  man  and  done  their  duty.    That  's  good  to  hear. 

"Finally,  give  them  a  little  patriotic  rapture.  Tell  them 
this  is  a  new  age  we  're  in.  Picture  to  them  the  capitalist  and 
working-man  walking  hand  in  hand  with  their  eyes  on  the 
flag.  Make  the  great  heart  of  America  throb  for  them.  Un- 
pleasant? Why,  if  you  top  off  with  a  heart-throb,  you  can 
make  the  most  denunciatory  speech  delightful  for  one  and 
all." 

The  Young  Politician  rose. 

"I  see,"  he  said.  "Thank  you.  Have  you  any  other 
advice?" 

"Merely  one  or  two  minor  hints,"  said  the  Old  Politician. 
"If  the  photographers  want  to  take  your  picture  teaching 
your  baby  to  walk,  let  them  do  it ;  the  public  loves  the  home 
life  of  its  leader.  Always  be  affable  to  the  reporters,  but 
never  state  your  views   explicitly,   or  you   may   find  them 


POLITICS  UP  TC  DATE 


141 


embarrassing  at  some  later  date.  Stick  to  generalities.  I 
think  that  's  all." 

"Thank  you  again,"  said  the  Young  Politician,  putting  cut 
his  hand.  "You  are  very  good.  You  're — "  An  idea 
seemed  to  seize  his  mind,  and  his  bearing  perceptibly  altered. 
"You,  sir,  are  a  good  American.  I  'm  always  delighted  to 
have  an  evening  with  a  man  who  is  absolutely  one-hundred- 
per-cent.  patriotic  American  to  the  core." 

"Good  night,"  said  the  Old  Politician.  "You  're  getting 
it  very  nicely.    I  think  you  '11  do  well. ' ' 


SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  What  advantage  is  gained  by  presenting  the  thought  through 

the  medium  of  dialogue? 

2.  What  is  the  character  of  the  Old  Politician? 

3.  Explain  the  writer's  satire  of  the  use  of  "Americanism." 

4.  What   are   the    Old    Politician's    principles    concerning   denun- 

ciation ? 

5.  What  are  the  writer's  principles? 

6.  In  what  ways  does  the  writer  satirize  the  American  public? 

7.  How  does  the  writer  satirize  political  campaigns? 

8.  How  does  the  writer  satirize  hypocrisy  in  political  life? 

9.  How  would  the  writer  have  a  political  campaign  conducted? 
10.  How  would  the  writer  have  an  office  holder  act? 


SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 


1.  The  Good  American 

2.  Campaign  Speaking 

3.  Political  Beliefs 

4.  Honesty  in  Public  Life 

5.  A  Worthy  Office  Holder 

6.  Political  Methods 

7.  Denunciation 

8.  A  Political  Campaign 

9.  Sincerity 

10.  Deceiving  the  Public 


11.  The  Right  Kind  of  Leader 

12.  Testing  Political  Speeches 

13.  Good  Citizens 

14.  How  to  Vote  Conscientiously 

15.  A  Genuine  Statesman 

16.  Patriotic  Speeches 

17.  Soap-box  Orators 

18.  Diverting  Attention 

19.  Public  Servants 

20.  The  American  People 


142  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

Think  of  a  series  of  principles  in  which  you  strongly  believe. 
Imagine  two  people  who  will  represent  definite  attitudes  toward  the 
principles  that  you  have  in  mind.  Write  a  dialogue  between  the 
two  people,  presenting  your  real  thought  in  the  disguise  of  satire. 
Let  your  work  represent  both  the  beginning  and  the  ending  of  the 
conversation.    As  in  all  other  writing,  make  the  ending  effective. 


FREE! 

By  CHAELES  HANSON  TOWNE 

(1877 — ).  Managing  editor  of  McClure's  Magazine.  Me 
has  written  many  delightful  books,  among  which  are:  The 
Quiet  Singer,  and  Other  Poems;  Jolly  Jaunts  with  Jim; 
Autumn  Loiterers;   Shaking  Hands  with  England. 

Over  two  hundred  years  ago  Joseph  Addison  imagined  a  character 
whom  he  called  "The  Spectator"  meeting  with  various  friends  and 
discussing  with  them  the  life  of  the  times.  Through  what  was  said 
by  these  imaginary  beings  Addison  gave  his  own  shrewd  comments  on 
foibles  and  follies.  Mr.  Towne's  "young-old  philosopher"  is  a  sort 
of  modern  "Spectator."  He  talks  of  the  drudgery  of  work,  and  the 
glowing  joy  of  a  holiday,  and  comes  to  the  sudden  realization  that  the 
world  is  a  world  of  work  in  which  every  one  must  play  his  part  if  he 
is  to  have  real  contentment.  The  essay  is  Mr.  Towne's  comment  both 
on  a  life  of  unvaried  drudgery  and  on  a  life  of  idleness. 


"I  have  wondered  what  it  would  seem  like  to  be  .  .  .  jogging  along 
with  nowhere  to  go  save  where  one  pleased. 


y  j 


The  young-old  philosopher  was  speaking. 

"I  had  a  strange  experience  yesterday.  To  have  spent 
twenty  years  or  so  at  office  work,  and  then  suddenly  to  ar- 
range one 's  affairs  so  that  a  portion  of  the  week  became  one 's 
own — that  is  an  experience,  is  n  't  it  ? " 

We  admitted  that  it  was  an  achievement  to  be  envied. 

"How  did  you  manage  it?"  was  the  natural  question. 

"That  is  a  detail  of  little  importance,"  he  replied.  "Let 
the  fact  of  one's  sudden  liberty  be  the  point  dwelt  upon.  I 
found  myself  walking  up  the  avenue  at  the  miraculous  hour 
of  eleven  in  the  morning,  and  not  going  to  a  desk!  I  was 
headed  for  the  park,  where  I  knew  the  trees  had  long  since 
loaded  their  branches  with  leaves,  and  the  grass  was  so  green 
that  it  made  the  heart  ache  with  its  loveliness.  You  know 
how  perfect  yesterday  was,  a  summer  day  to  remember  and 
to  be  grateful  for. 

143 


144  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

"To  you  who  have  never  known  what  it  is  to  drudge  day 
in  and  day  out,  this  may  seem  a  trifling  thing  to  speak  of. 
For  myself,  a  miracle  had  happened.  I  could  not  believe 
that  this  golden  hour  was  mine  completely.  I  had  never  seen 
shop-windows  with  quite  this  slant  of  the  sun  on  them.  Al- 
ways I  had  viewed  them  early  or  late,  or  wistfully  at  noon, 
when  the  streets  were  so  crowded  with  other  escaped  office 
men  that  I  could  take  no  pleasure  in  what  I  beheld.  Shop- 
windows  at  eleven  in  the  morning  were  for  the  elect  of  the 
earth.  That  hour  had  always  heretofore  meant  for  me  a 
manuscript  to  be  read  or  edited,  a  conference  to  be  attended, 
a  telephone  call  to  be  answered,  a  visit  from  some  one  seeking 
advice? — something,  at  any  rate,  that  made  it  impossible  for 
me  to  call  it  my  own.  I  have  looked  often  from  a  high 
window  at  that  hour,  and  seen  the  people  in  the  streets  as 
they  trailed  like  ribbons  round  and  round  the  vast  city,  and 
I  have  wondered  what  it  would  seem  like  to  be  one  of  them, 
not  hurrying  on  some  commercial  errand,  but  jogging  along 
with  nowhere  to  go  save  where  one  pleased. 

"At  last  my  dream  had  come  true,  and  when  I  found 
myself  projected  upon  that  thrilling  avenue,  and  realized 
that  I  had  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  to  do  until  luncheon- 
time,  and  I  could  skip  that  if  I  wished,  I  could  scarcely  be- 
lieve that  it  was  I  who  had  thus  broken  the  traces. 

"The  green  of  the  park  greeted  me,  and,  like  Raleigh's 
cloak,1  a  gay  pattern  of  flowers  was  laid  at  the  entrance  for 
even  my  unworthy  feet  metaphorically  to  tread.  And  to 
think  that  these  bright  blooms  unfolded  here  day  after  day 
and  I  had  so  seldom  seen  them !  An  old  man  dozed  on  a 
bench  near  at  hand,  oblivious  to  the  beauty  around  him ;  and 
a  septuagenarian  gardener  leaned  over  the  circular  border, 
just  as  Narcissus 2  looked  into  the  pool.  Perhaps  he  saw 
some  image  of  his  youth  in  the  uplifted  face  of  a  flower. 

"I  know  that  I  saw  paths  and  byways  everywhere  that 

1  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  is  said  to  have  laid  his  eloak  in  the  mud  so  that 
Queen  Elizabeth  might  pass  without   soiling  her  garments. 

a  Narcissus.  A  Greek  myth  tells  of  a  young  man  named  Narcissus 
who,  leaning  over  a  pool,  fell  in  love  with  his  own  reflection,  and 
changed  into  a  flower. 


FREE!  14£ 

reminded  me  of  my  vanished  boyhood ;  for  I  am  one  of '  .-.ose 
who  have  always  lived  in  Manhattan,  and  some  of  thf,  hap- 
piest days  I  ever  spent  were  those  in  the  park  as  7  child, 
seeing  the  menagerie,  feeding  the  squirrels,  and  ro/ling  a 
hoop  on  a  graveled  pathway. 

"I  remembered  Rossetti's  line,3  'I  have  been  here  before,' 
as  I  walked  along  on  this  exultant  morning;  and  it  indeed 
seemed  as  if  in  some  previous  incarnation,  and  not  in  this  life, 
I  had  known  my  footsteps  to  take  this  perfumed  way.  For 
in  the  hurry  of  life  and  in  the  rush  of  our  modern  days  we 
forget  too  soon  the  leisure  of  childhood,  plunging  as  we  do 
into  the  rough-and-tumble  of  an  agonized  manhood. 

"And  all  this  was  while  the  park,  like  a  green  island  set  in 
a  throbbing  sea,  had  waited  for  me  to  come  back  to  it!  No 
lake  isle  of  Innesfree  4  could  have  beguiled  the  poet  more. 
Anchored  at  a  desk,  I  had  dreamed  often  of  such  an  hour 
of  freedom ;  and  now  that  it  was  really  mine,  I  determined 
that  I  would  not  analyze  it,  but  that  I  would  simply  drink 
in  its  wonder.  It  would  have  been  as  criminal  as  to  pluck  a 
flower  apart. 

' '  Policemen  went  their  weary  rounds,  swinging  their  sticks, 
and  it  suddenly  came  to  me  that  even  in  this  sylvan  retreat 
there  was  stern  labor  to  be  done.  Just  as  some  one,  some 
time,  must  sweep  out  a  shrine, — possibly  nowadays  with  a 
vacuum-cleaner! — so  papers  must  be  picked  from  God's 
grass,  and  pick-pockets  must  be  diligently  looked  for  in  holi- 
day crowds.  Men  on  high  and  practical  sprinkling-carts 
must  keep  the  roadways  clean,  and  emissaries  of  the  law  must 
see  to  it  that  motorists  do  not  speed  too  fast.  You  think  of 
ice-cream  as  being  miraculously  made  in  a  park  pavilion,  and 
unless  you  visit  the  city  woodland  at  the  hour  of  eleven  or  so 
in  the  morning,  you  may  keep  your  dream.    But  I  beheld  a 

•Dante  Gabriel  Rosetti  (1828-1882).  An  English  poet  of  Italian 
and  English  descent.  His  poems  are  marked  by  beauty  of  form, 
symbolism  and  color. 

*  Innesfree.  The  Irish  poet,  William  Butler  Yeats  (1864 — )  wrote 
The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree  in  which  he  imagines  Innisfree  as  an  island 
of  perfect  peace,  a  place  for  which  he  longs  when  ' '  on  the  roadway, 
or  on  the  pavements  gray. ' ' 


146  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

common  ice-wagon  back  up  to  the  door  of  that  cherished 
house  of  my  childhood,  and  a  strong,  rough  fellow  proved 
himself  the  connecting-link  between  the  waitress  and  her 
eager  little  customers. 

"At  this  hour  it  was  as  though  I  had  gone  behind  the  scenes 
of  a  theater  while  the  stage-hands  were  busy  about  their 
necessary  labors.  Wiring  had  to  be  done, — I  had  forgotten 
that  they  have  telephones  even  in  the  park, — and  a  mason 
was  repairing  a  crumbling  wall.  How  much  better  to  let  it 
?rumble,  I  thought.  But  all  my  practicality,  through  my 
sense  of  strange  freedom,  had  left  me,  and  I  was  ardent  for 
a  mad,  glad  world,  where  for  a  long  time  there  would  be 
nothing  for  anybody  to  do.  I  wanted  masons  and  policemen 
and  icemen  and  nurse-maids  and  electricians  and  keepers  of 
zoological  gardens  to  be  as  free  as  I,  forever  and  ever. 

"You  see,  my  unexpected  holiday  had  gone  to  my  head, 
and  it  was  a  summer  morning,  and  I  felt  somehow  that  I 
ought  to  be  working  rather  than  loitering  here. 

"I  suppose  I  shall  be  sane  to-morrow,  but  I  wonder  if  I 
want  to  be." 

And  we  all  wondered  if  we  did  n't  like  him  better  when  he 
was  just  this  way,  a  child  with  a  new  toy,  or,  rather,  a  child 
with  an  old  toy  that  he  had  almost  but  not  quite  forgotten 
how  to  play  with. 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  What  advantage  does  the  essayist  gain  by  using  characters  to 

express  his  own  thoughts? 

2.  What  made  the  philosopher's  holiday  so  notable? 

3.  What  had  been  his  daily  life? 

4.  Comment  on  the  various  thoughts  and  fancies  that  came  to  the 

philosopher  on  his  holiday. 

5.  What  is  meant  by  the  expression,  "An  Agonized  Manhood"? 

6.  What  joys  does  the  philosopher  find? 

7.  Show  how  his  thoughts  come  back  to  the  idea  of  work. 

8.  In  what  did  his  lack  of  "sanity"  consist? 

9.  Does  the  expression,  "I  suppose  I  shall  be  sane  to-morrow," 

mean  that  he  will  wish  to  work,  or  wish  to  have  a  holiday,  or 
wish  for  something  else? 


FEEE!  147 

10.  What  was  the  toy  that  he  had  almost  forgotten  how  to  play 

with? 

11.  What  is  the  author's  purpose? 

12.  What  evils  in  modern  life  does  the  essay  criticize? 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 

1.  School  Athletics  11.  Selfishness 

2.  Home  Study  12.  School  Spirit 

3.  Exercise  13.  Good  Manners 

4.  Reading  14.  Playing  Jokes 

5.  Writing  Letters  15.  Carefulness 

6.  Aiding  Others  16.  Honesty  in  School  Work 

7.  Politeness  17.  Thoughtfulness 

8.  Using  Reference  Books  18.  Practising  Music  Lessons 

9.  Going  to  Bed  Early  19.  Looking  Out  for  Number  One 
10.  Obedience  20.  "Bluffing" 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

When  you  have  selected  a  subject  that  interests  you,  write  out, 
'in  a  single  sentence,  your  one  most  important  thought  on  that  sub- 
ject.    Then  plan  to  write  an  essay  that  will  embody  that  thought. 

If  you  are  to  imitate  Mr.  Towne's  method  you  will  think  of  a 
typical  character  who  will  express  your  own  thought.  As  soon  as 
you  have  introduced  your  character — notice  how  quickly  Mr.  Towne 
introduced  the  "young-old  philosopher" — lead  him  to  relate  an  expe- 
rience that  made  him  think  about  the  subject.  Write  his  meditations 
in  such  a  way  that  they  will  show  all  view-points.  Let  the  end  of 
your  essay  indicate,  rather  than  state,  the  view-point  that  you  wish 
to  emphasize. 

Mr.  Towne  gives  his  essay  many  elements  of  originality  and  much 
beauty  of  thought  and  expression.  Imitate  his  style  as  well  as  you 
can. 


THE  STORY  OF  ADVENTURE 

PRUNIER  TELLS  A  STORY 

By  T.  MORRIS  LONGSTRETH 

An  American  author  and  lover  of  natural  scenery.  His  books 
on  The  Adirondacks,  and  The  Catskills  are  enticements  into 
the  mountain  world.     He  is  a  writer  for  many  periodicals. 

The  romantic  story  of  adventure  deals  with  events  that  are  far  from 
being  the  events  of  daily  life.  Usually  such  a  story  has  for  its  setting 
an  unusual  scene. 

Prunier  Tells  a  Story  deals  with  events  that  come  into  very  few  lives; 
its  setting  is  a  region  into  which  very  few  people  penetrate.  The 
principal  character,  the  French-Canadian  Prunier,  is  likewise  a  type  of 
person  with   whom  few  are  acquainted. 

At  the  same  time,  the  story  is  told  with  a  degree  of  naturalness  that 
makes  it  seem  real.  The  French-Canadian  is  brought  into  touch  with 
daily  life  by  the  presence  of  his  two  listeners,  who  are  people  of  the 
ordinary  world,  and  one  of  whom  is  a  boy. 

The  story  is  not  told  merely  for  wild  event:  it  hangs  upon  character 
and  upon  noble  purpose.  It  emphasizes  courage,  ability,  self-sacrifice 
and  faith. 

The  setting  of  the  story  is  so  used  that  it  contributes  in  a  marked 
degree  to  the  entire  effect.  As  one  reads  he  feels  himself  in  the  icy 
north,  in  the  grip  of  cold  and  darkness  where  wild  events  are  altogether 
probable. 

PART  I 

THE  PILLAR  OF  CLOUD  BY  DAY 

It  was  after  supper  one  November  evening,  at  "Wilderness 
House,  with  the  sleet  dancing  on  the  eaves  and  the  great 
forest  of  Wildyrie  closing  us  about  with  its  dark  presence, 
when  Essex  Lad  and  I  stumbled  by  chance  on  the  fact  that 
we  did  n  't  have  to  read  books  for  adventure,  but  merely  touch 
Prunier  in  some-story-telling  place,  and  then — listen. 

148 


PRUNIER  TELLS  A  STORY  149 

Prunier,  you  remember,  is  the  blue-shirted,  black-hatted 
French-Canadian  who  lives  with  us  and  thinks  he  works.  He 
is  a  broad-shouldered,  husky,  simple-faced  man  of  forty,  who 
never  opens  his  mouth  unless  it  be  to  point  out  a  partridge  we 
are  overlooking  or  to  put  in  his  black  pipe.  He  spent  his 
youth  in  the  great  Northland,  where  adventures  are  as  com- 
mon as  black  flies  in  a  swamp,  and  yet  he  had  never  even 
explained  the  scar  across  his  cheek,  or  the  white  patch  on 
his  scalp  where  some  other  excitement  had  been  registered, 
until  that  evening  when  I  had  closed  the  Bible. 

"Tink  dat  true?"  he  had  suddenly  asked. 

I  had  been  reading  them  how  the  Lord  God  had  led  Moses 
and  the  children  of  Israel  across  that  other  wilderness  by  a 
pillar  of  cloud  by  day  and  a  pillar  of  fire  by  night.  It  had 
roused  him  strangely. 

"I  know  it  true,"  he  said,  "for  le  bon  Dieu  show  me  way 
by  pillars  of  cloud  and  fire  aussi.  If  you  want  story,  I  tole 
you  dat  wan,  moi-meme." 

It  was  our  turn  to  be  excited.  Here  was  luck — a  vacanV 
evening,  a  hearth  fire,  and  Prunier  promising  une  longue 
histoire,  as  he  called  it.  We  formed  a  semi-circle  before  the 
blazing  birch,  and,  with  the  dull  beat  of  the  sleet  above  us 
for  accompaniment,  listened  for  the  first  word  that  would 
launch  the  black-eyed  man  upon  his  tale.  It  was  long  com- 
ing. He  relit  the  pipe,  recrossed  his  legs,  muttered  once 
"Pore  ole  Pierre,"  and  stopped.  We  ceased  to  breathe;  for 
though  I  could  command  him  to  cut  wood  and  wash  dishes, 
I  could  not  force  from  him  a  syllable  about ' '  Pore  ole  Pierre ; ' 
until  he  was  good  and  ready. 

"Monsieur  Moses  et  moi,  we  have  purty  hard  times  in 
wilderness  widout  doze  pillars,"  he  said. 

The  Lad  and  I  gave  a  nervous  laugh.  I  could  not  fancy 
myself  personally  conducting  forty  thousand  Hebrews,  even 
through  Wildyrie,  without  much  assistance. 

"Yaas,"  he  said,  "purty  hard.    I  now  begin." 

And  begin  he  did,  slowly  and  with  his  quaint  talk  seasoned 
with  his  habitant  French,  which  I  '11  have  to  omit  in  my 
retelling. 


150  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

"It  was  a  night  just  like  this,  in  my  little  cabin  on  "Wolf 
River.  It  had  rained  and  then  frozen,  and  the  dark  closed 
in  with  sleet.  A  very  good  night  to  be  indoors,  thought  ole 
Pierre  and  I.  Ole  Pierre  was  my  best  friend,  an  old  husky, 
who  had  been  trapping  with  me  four — five  years.  He  knew 
all  that  men  know,  I  think,  as  well  as  all  that  dogs  under- 
stand, and  he  could  smell  a  werewolf  in  the  twilight." 

"A  werewolf,  what  's  that?"  was  on  the  very  opening  of 
the  Lad's  lips,  but  he  held  back  the  question. 

"A  werewolf,  you  know,"  went  on  Prunier,  "is  worse 
than  real  wolf,  for  it  is  in  the  air — a  ghost-wolf.  That  is  why 
ole  Pierre  sometimes  howled  in  his  sleep  and  kept  her  from 
visiting  us.  That  is  why  I  put  a  candle  in  the  window  every 
dusk-time.     As  you  shall  see,  it  was  lucky  habit. 

"Eh  bien,  that  night  I  was  sorting  over  my  traps,  for  I 
thought  it  would  turn  cold  after  the  storm.  Then  I  would 
cross  Breknek  Place  and  begin  the  winter's  trapping. 

"Breknek  Place  is  its  name,  because  the  sides  of  Woif 
River  come  very  close  together,  almost  so  near  a  man  can 
jump.  Indeed  its  name  is  really  because  a  trapper  like  mi 
was  surprised  by  the  wolves  and  ran  for  it.  But  he  was  too 
scared,  and  missed.  They  never  got  his  body,  the  wolves, 
because  the  river  runs  so  fast  down  to  the  Smoky  Pool. 
Smoky  Pool  is  a  warm  cove  in  the  St.  Lawrence  that  freezes 
last,  and  from  which  clouds  of  vapor  rise  on  still  days  into 
the  colder  air. 

"I  never  intended  to  be  washed  down  that  way,  and  in  the 
summer  I  felled  a  tree  from  bank  to  bank,  a  broad  hemlock, 
big  enough  to  run  a  sledge  over,  almost ;  and  that  save  many 
miles  walking  up  river  to  Portage  du  Loup.  I  never  intended, 
either,  to  be  run  by  the  wolves,  you  bet!  And  ole  Pierre  and 
I  were  pretty-very  careful  to  be  inside  at  the  candle-lighting 
time. 

"That  night  our  cabin  was  very  quiet,  like  this,  for  the 
sleet  was  a  little  pleasant  sound,  and  ole  Pierre  was  dreaming 
of  old  hunts,  and  I  was  on  the  floor  with  the  traps,  when  both 
the  dog  and  I  were  brought  out  of  our  thoughts  by  a  wild 


PETTNIEE  TELLS  A  STOEY  151 

cry,  very  faint  and  far  away,  but  as  sharp  and  sudden  as  a 
cut  of  lightning  on  a  summer  night. 

"The  hair  on  the  back  of  my  neck  rises  just  like  ole 
Pierre's,  for  I  know  it  is  the  werewolf.  And  he  looks  at  me 
and  whines,  for  he  knows  it,  too.  I  rush  and  light  a  second 
candle,  though  I  have  not  too  many,  and  look  out  the  pane. 
But  ot  course,  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen,  nothing  to  be  heard, 
except  the  moaning  of  wind  in  the  dark.  Yet  later  I  hear  a 
noise,  very  weak,  very  unsteady,  as  if  a  person  was  approach- 
ing. 

"Ole  Pierre  howls  low  in  his  throat  and  scratches  on  the 
door.  I  reprove  him :  '  Are  you  possessed,  ole  Pierre  ?  There 
is  no  soul  within  sixty — seventy  miles.  And  you  and  I  have 
done  nothing  that  should  let  the  werewolf  in.' 

"But  it  was  fearful  hearing  that  stealthy  approach,  stop- 
ping long,  then  many  steps,  and  a  groan.  I  get  out  the  Bible 
and  read  fast.  But  there  comes  a  tap-tap  at  the  door,  and  I 
tremble  so  the  book  almost  falls  from  my  hand,  and  ole  Pierre, 
he  calls  to  his  saints,  too. 

"What  is  the  use  of  looking  out,  for  who  can  see  a  were- 
wolf? 

"Presently  there  is  no  noise.  The  tap-tap  stops;  and  ex- 
cept for  a  noise  as  of  a  bundle  of  something  dropping  against 
the  door,  there  is  nothing  to  hear  except  the  dull  sleet  on  the 
eaves,  ole  Pierre  crying  in  his  throat,  and  the  trip-trip  of  my 
heart  that  goes  like  a  werewolf  pounding  on  my  ribs.  A 
voice  inside  me  says  open  the  door.  But  another  voice  says 
'That  is  a  werewolf  trick  and  you  will  be  carried  away, 
Prunier.'    Twenty  times  my  hand  is  on  the  bolt. 

"At  last  I  can  stand  it  no  longer, — that  voice  inside  saying 
to  me  to  open, — and  I  rush  to  it  and  throw  it  open  before  I 
have  time  to  think,  and  a  body  falls  in,  against  my  legs. 
A  long,  thin  body  it  is,  and  I  hesitate  to  touch  it,  for  a  were- 
wolf can  take  any  form.  But  a  groan  comes  from  it,  and  I 
have  not  the  heart  to  push  it  out  into  the  dark.  I  prop  it  by 
the  fire  and  its  eyes  droop  open.  'Food — tie  up  food.'  That 
is  the  first  word  it  says. 


152  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

"I  push  some  medicine  for  weakness  into  his  mouth,  and 
his  life  comes  back  little  by  little.  'You  must  take  food  to 
her,'  he  says;  and  soon  again,  'The  ship  by  Smoky  Pool — she 
starves  in  it — my  sister.' 

"Indeed,  I  soon  saw  that  he  was  faint  from  long  travel  and 
no  feeding,  and  perhaps  a  sickness  past  thrown  in,  for  he 
faints  much  between  parts  of  his  account.  But  I  gather  the 
news  that  he  had  come  very  far  from  some  deserted  ship  in 
which  a  sister  was  starving  to  death;  and  alone,  since  his 
three  partners  had  cleared  out.  He  begged  of  me  to  leave 
him  and  take  food  for  her.  He  cried  out  that  he  was  dying, 
and  I  had  to  believe  him;  for  death's  shadows  sat  at  the 
entrance  to  his  eyes.  I  made  him  glad  by  placing  bread  be- 
side him,  and  by  putting  on  my  Mackinaw  and  the  pack  after 
it,  in  which  I  had  put  food. 

"A  fever  of  uneasiness  stirred  him  between  faints  until 
I  had  lit  a  lantern  and  called  to  ole  Pierre  to  follow.  Then 
joy  shone  in  his  worn  eyes,  and  a  blessing  on  us  both  followed 
us  out  into  the  icy  night. 

"With  a  last  look  through  the  window  at  the  stranger, 
who  had  now,  as  I  thought,  closed  his  eyes  in  surrender  to 
the  end,  ole  Pierre  and  I  turned  into  the  endless  forest  on  our 
long  trail  to  the  Smoky  Pool.  The  sleet  was  freezing  as  it  fell, 
and  the  rays  of  my  lantern  lit  the  woods,  which  seemed  made 
of  marble,  the  dark  trunks  glistening,  the  laden  boughs  hang- 
ing down  like  chandeliers  in  a  cathedral,  and  the  shrubs 
glittering  like  ten  million  candles  as  we  passed.  In  such  a 
place,  I  thought,  no  werewolf  dare  attack  us. 

"Instead,  I  thought  of  the  trail  ahead,  the  long  miles  till 
we  come  to  Breknek  Place,  the  long  miles  after  to  the  ice- 
locked  arm  of  the  St.  Lawrence  near  by  the  Smoky  Pool.  On 
such  an  errand  we  had  nothing  to  fear,  though  outside  the 
lantern-shine  it  was  as  dark  as  the  one  of  Monsieur  Moses' 
bad  plagues  you  have  read  to  the  Lad  so  lately. 

"We  had  got  within  three — four  miles  of  Wolf  River,  ole 
Pierre  slip-slipping  on  the  ice  in  front  of  me,  the  lantern 
swinging,  my  pack  beginning  to  feel  like  a  rest,  when  for 
the  second  time  that  night  a  cry  shivers  across  the  distanc-e. 


PRUNIEE  TELLS  A  STORY  153 

an  awful  sound  for  a  lonely  man  to  hear  in  the  night  forest. 

"It  is  a  long  howl,  fierce  and  almost  gladsome,  like  when 
the  evil  one  is  clutching  a  new  victim.  And  it  is  answered 
from  the  other  side  of  the  night  by  another  howl,  and  then  a 
chorus  from  both  sides  at  once.  And  then  the  trail  turns, 
and  I  know  the  pack  of  them  is  not  chasing  deer  far  away, 
but  chasing  me,  us.  For  ole  Pierre  knows  it,  too,  and  crouches 
whining  at  my  feet.  Ole  Pierre  knows  there  is  no  escape, 
like  me. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  a  wolf-pack  run  down  a  deer  by 
turns,  leap  at  its  throat,  and  pull  it  down  ?  I  have  once,  near 
Trois  Rivieres,  from  a  safe  place  on  a  mountain.  And  it  was 
bad  enough  to  be  in  the  safe  place,  only  watching.  But  that 
night  how  much  worse !  I  pat  ole  Pierre  on  the  head  and 
tell  him  to  cheer  up,  there  is  no  use  dying  three — four  times 
ahead  of  time.  And  as  I  say  that,  I  think  of  that  other  man 
chased  by  wolves  who  had  tried  to  leap  at  Breaknek  Place. 

"  'Tiens!  ole  Pierre,'  I  cry,  'let  us  do  better!'  And  off  I 
start  at  a  dead  run,  feet  slipping  sideways,  lantern  swinging, 
pack  rising,  falling,  like  a  rabbit's  hind  leg,  with  ole  Pierre 
chasing  after.  It  is  less  than  a  mile  to  the  narrow  gorge. 
Could  we  make  that,  perhaps  I  could  throw  the  big  hemlock 
in  and  stop  them  from  crossing  after  us.  A  revolver  is  no 
good  against  a  pack,  and  going  up  a  tree  is  only  putting  off 
till  to-morrow  their  big  feast  on  habitant. 

"The  quick  motion  of  our  running  put  courage  in  our 
blood,  and  after  a  little  while  even  ole  Pierre's  brush  waves 
higher  in  the  air,  as  if  he  had  remembered  some  fight  of  old, 
and  we  gallop.  We  gallop,  but  the  wolves  they  gallop  too. 
First  on  one  side  far  off,  then  on  the  other  nearer,  and  ever 
as  the  trail  winds  in  a  new  direction  they  sound  like  pack 
on  pack  of  them,  although  there  might  have  been  less  than 
ten.  It  is  only  late  in  the  winter  with  us,  when  the  snow  is 
deep,  that  they  gather  into  big  packs  to  pull  down  the  moose. 

"At  length,  breathless,  very  tired,  but  still  ahead  of  them, 
ole  Pierre  and  I  come  out  into  the  clear  space  just  before  the 
river.  It  was  very  slippery  with  frozen  sleet,  and  I  fall 
ence — twice ;  and  ole  Pierre  slide  here — there,  like  a  kitten  on 


154  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

new  ice.  Ahead  of  us  roars  the  river  through  the  deep  gorge, 
Behind  on  two  sides  the  howling  comes  from  the  forest,  and 
once,  when  I  look  back,  I  see  them.  But  that  can't  be,  for  it 
is  so  dark.  Yet  I  imagine  I  see  them — black,  racing  forms, 
tongues  out,  muzzles  sharp  and  red,  and  a  green-yellow  fire 
from  the  eyes. 

"And  it  was  so.  For  before  we  reach  the  fallen  hemlock, 
our  bridge  to  safety,  two  come  between  us  and  the  river. 
With  a  yell,  I  fire  straight  where  they  were,  but  it  is  too  dark, 
too  slippery  to  hit,  and  they  only  circle  back  to  wait  till  their 
partners  come  up.  I  fling  myself  down  breathless,  weak,  for 
just  two  seconds'  wind. 

"  'Cross  ole  Pierre,  cross  over,  man  enfant!'  And  he 
trotted  to  the  long  log,  but  crawled  back  with  his  tail  drag- 
ging, and  whined  about  me.  Black  shadows,  five,  ten,  twelve 
maybe,  circled  outside  the  ring  of  my  lantern-light,  and  the 
green-yellow  eyes  were  no  imagination  now.  But  they  were 
quiet,  intent  on  closing  in.  With  the  lantern,  which  was  our 
only  salvation  from  their  fangs,  in  one  hand  and  my  revolver 
in  the  other,  I  backed  to  the  hemlock,  calling  to  ole  Pierre  to 
follow.  He  is  trembling,  and  I  soon  know  why;  for  when  I 
put  my  foot  on  our  bridge  to  safety,  it  cannot  stay,  and  I 
nearly  plunge  headlong  into  the  rocky  stream  thirty  feet 
below.  The  log  was  slippery  with  frozen  mist.  We  were 
trapped.  At  our  backs,  a  river  not  to  be  crossed;  about  us, 
a  crew  of  wolves  getting  bolder  every  minute. 

1 '  '  Courage,  ole  Pierre ! '  I  cried  ;  and  I  fired  once  into  them. 
There  was  a  shrill  howl  and  cry,  and  several  made  a  rush 
toward  us,  instead  of  away.  I  drop  the  lantern  to  load  my 
revolver.  Ole  Pierre  brushes  against  it,  and  in  a  second  it 
starts  to  glide  down  the  slope  on  the  sleet-ice.  It  goes  faster, 
I  gaping  after  it,  slips  with  a  flicker  over  the  edge,  and  we 
hear  it  crash  and  tinkle  on  the  rocks  down  there! 

"Quel  horreu-rl  It  was  savage.  The  kerosene  flares  up, 
and  for  once  I  see  the  whole  scene  plainly :  the  gorge,  a  great 
leap  wide  at  its  narrowest,  spouting  light;  the  ice-silvered 
hemlock-bridge  leading  to  safety,  but  uncrossable  except  for 
a  circus-dancer;  a  fringe  of  bushes,  with  the  sudden-illumi- 


PRTTNIER  TELLS  A  STORY  155 

nated  forms  of  strong-shouldered  wolves  cowering  in  their 
surprise  at  the  light. 

"Ole  Pierre  and  I  had  three  minutes, — I  thought  the 
kerosene  would  last  that  long, — then  darkness,  a  rush  from 
the  dark,  hot  fangs  feeling  for  the  throat,  and  there  would  be 
no  ole  Pierre,  no  Prunier  to  rescue  the  girl  in  the  ship  from 
starvation. 

''And  at  the  thought  of  her  came  the  picture  of  my  little 
cabin,  the  fire  we  had  left,  the  coziness  of  it.  It  made  me 
mad — to  die ! 

"  'Quick,  ole  Pierre,'  I  say.  'Allons!  We  will  crawl  over 
the  bridge,'  and  I  kneel  on  it.  But  my  knees  slip.  I  sit  on 
it  and  push  myself  along,  until  I  can  see  the  wrecked  lantern, 
going  slowly  out.  I  call  to  ole  Pierre,  and  he  comes  out  two 
— three  paces,  whines,  cries,  lies  down  and  trembles.  The 
light  is  fading  and  when  it  goes  it  is  our  end.  But  I  cannot 
leave  ole  Pierre. 

"I  crawl  back  and  take  him  in  my  arms,  a  very  big  arm- 
load. The  light  is  fading.  I  cannot  see  the  bushes.  And 
the  eyes  of  the  indistinct  brutes  again  begin  to  gleam.  They 
approach  the  end  of  the  tree.  Ole  Pierre  is  too  big  to  carry, 
and  I  set  him  down  to  fix  my  cartridges  so  that  I  can  get 
them  easily.  It  is  not  so  long  to  dawn.  If  we  can  hold  them 
at  the  end  of  the  bridge  till  dawn,  we  might  live. 

' '  Suddenly  a  fearful  thing  happens :  the  kerosene  flares  up 
in  a  dying  leap,  then  the  dark  rushes  at  us,  and,  with  a  con- 
cert of  snarls,  the  pack  comes  with  it.  Ole  Pierre  is  brave, 
but,  as  they  reach  us,  the  rush  of  them  cannot  stop  on  the 
ice,  and  I  feel  the  hair  of  one,  I  hear  his  jaws.  I  know  that 
they  are  pushing  toward  the  edge,  and  in  the  dark  I  have  to 
feel  for  ole  Pierre. 

"There  is  an  awful  melee,  and  I  fire.  By  the  flash  I  see 
ole  Pierre  by  the  brink,  with  two  big  wolves  upon  him.  I 
drop  my  revolver  to  clutch  at  him.  A  dark  form  leaps  at 
me.  I  have  my  knife  in  my  teeth.  I  drive  it  hard  and  often, 
sometimes  growling  like  a  wolf  myself,  sometimes  calling  to 
ole  Pierre. 

' '  Once  more  the  lantern  flares  enough  to  show  the  blood  on 


156  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

my  knife,  the  heap  of  struggling  forms  flung  on  my  dog,  and 
as  it  dies  for  the  last  time  I  fancy  them  sliding — sliding.  I 
rush  to  save  him,  but  must  beat  back  a  great  hot-breathed 
creature  whose  jaws  just  scrape  my  scalp.  We  are  all  sliding 
together  now,  faster,  faster,  toward  the  edge  of  the  gorge. 
A  dripping  muzzle  tears  my  cheek, — it  is  this  scar  you  see, — • 
but  with  both  hands  I  throttle  it;  and  clutching  with  a  sort 
of  madness,  I  hold  as  we  go  over  the  edge — down,  all  to- 
gether down —    Pore  ole  Pierre!" 

Prunier  stopped.  For  an  hour  Essex  Lad  and  I  had  lis- 
tened, more  and  more  intently,  until  now,  when  the  subdued 
sound  of  his  slow-speaking  ceased,  we  were  both  gripping  the 
edge  of  our  chairs,  falling  over  the  edge  of  that  gorge  witn. 
him,  sympathetically.  I  could  have  imagined  the  least  noise 
into  the  click  of  jaws. 

But  there  was  no  noise,  the  Lad  sitting  perfectly  rigid, 
speechless,  staring  at  the  man.  Presently  he  put  out  a  hand, 
slowly,  and  touched  the  guide  as  if  to  make  sure  that  the  fall 
had  not  been  fatal.  And  still  neither  of  us  spoke.  Prunier 
was  going  to  recommence.  He  opened  his  mouth,  but  it  was 
only  to  yawn. 

"Mon  Dieu,"  he  said,  "but  I  sleep!  It  ees  very  late." 
And  the  man  actually  rose. 

"But  'mon  Dieu/  "  I  said,  "you  can't  leave  us  falling 
over  a  precipice!  What  happened?  Tell  us  at  least  what 
happened.  And  you  haven't  even  mentioned  the  pillar  of 
fire  or  of  smoke." 

"C'est  une  tres  longue  lvistoire."  ["It  is  a  very  long 
story."] 

"Poor  ole  Pierre!"  said  the  Lad,  as  if  coming  out  of  a 
dream;  "did  it  kill  him?" 

Prunier  shook  his  head,  no.  "It  kill  only  the  wolves  we 
landed  on — geplump!  We  had  stopped  on  a  gravel  ledge, 
with  the  cold  breath  of  the  river  rushing  by  a  foot  away.  I 
never  lose  sense.  I  begin  chuck  wolves  into  the  river.  Three 
— four — five,  in  they  go,  my  back  bending,  my  back  straight- 
ening, and  gesplash!  another  howl  down-stream !  I  think  I 
never  lose  sense.    But  I  did."    He  stopped  again,  and  rubbed 


PRUNIER  TELLS  A  STORY  157 

a  slow  hand  across  his  summer-tanned  brow.  "I  must  have 
losed  sense.  In  the  morning  there  are  no  animals  on  the 
ledge." 

"You  mean — "  began  the  Lad,  and  did  not  finish. 

Prunier  nodded. 

"But  he  would  not  have  lived  anyway,"  I  said,  to  ease 
the  pain  in  his  memory.  "Ole  Pierre  could  not  have  lived 
with  all  the  wolf -bites  he  must  have  had." 

"I  hope  he  know  I  was  not  in  my  sense,"  said  Prunier. 
" Alors,  dawn  came  soon,  and  I  cross  the  stream  on  big  rocks 
and  climb  up  birch  sapling  to  the  opposite  bank.  I  look  back. 
No  sign  of  wolves.  I  look  forward,  no  sign  of  life  to  the  north 
pole,  no  forest  even,  just  endless  plain  to  the  frozen  river 
endless  far  away. 

"I  give  a  big  groan,  for  there  is  no  strength  in  my  legs,  no 
courage  in  my  heart,  and  I  feel  like  falling  on  my  knees  and 
asking  le  oon  Dieu  to  show  me  the  way.  And  it  was  as  if  He 
had  heard,  for  suddenly  my  eye  is  caught  by  a  thin  pillar  of 
white  ascending  into  the  gray  sky. 

"  'Courage,'  I  said,  'it  is  His  sign.'  I  fixed  my  torn  pack, 
bound  up  my  cheek  and  scalp,  and  made  over  the  glassy  sur- 
face of  the  plain  straight  where  the  pillar  led  me.  On  and 
on  I  stumbled.  I  would  never  have  reached  my  errand 's  end 
but  for  that  pillar  of  smoke.  And  if  I  had  not  reached  it — " 
Again  there  was  a  pause.  Then,  "I  will  tell  some  other 
time,"  he  said,  "c'est  une  longue  hist  aire." 

Not  another  word  could  we  get  from  him,  and  we  soon 
turned  in.  The  last  thing  I  remember  was  the  Lad's  voice 
coming  to  me  from  his  bed,  "Don't  forget,  Lucky,  we  '11  get 
his  pillar  of  fire  out  of  him,  too." 

PART  II 

THE  PILLAR  OF  FIRE  BY  NIGHT 

By  next  morning  our  storm  of  sleet  had  turned  into  a  half- 
blizzard  of  snow  and  we  put  another  great  birch  log  on  the 
fire,  got  out  a  new  can  of  Prunier 's  favorite  pipe  tobacco, 


158  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

and  generally  made  ready  to  extract  the  rest  of  his  story  from 
him  when  he  had  finished  straightening  np  the  kitchen. 

"Yaas,"  he  said,  "the  next  day  to  the  day  I  was  telling 
you  about  was  just  such  another  as  this.  All  that  morning  I 
walked  toward  le  bon  Dieu's  pillar  of  smoke,  and  in  the 
afternoon  I  reached  it,  rising  from  the  great  whirling  pool 
of  steaming  water  into  the  gray  sky  that  was  thickening  for 
a  great  snow — the  real  beginning  of  winter. 

"Not  far  from  the  Smoky  Pool,  just  as  the  dead  man  had 
said  it  would  be,  rode  the  schooner  in  the  ice-locked  cove 
where  she  had  been  wrecked.  All  was  as  still  as  a  scared 
mouse.  Behind  me  rose  that  white  wavering  pillar;  and  in 
front  the  vessel  leaned  a  little,  as  if  to  subside  into  a  wave- 
trough  that  would  never  receive  her.  But  silence  covered  all, 
and  I  dreaded  to  enter  that  ship  for  fear  of  what  I  should  see. 

"But  the  dead  man  had  been  a  better  brother  than  he  had 
been  a  ship-pilot,  for  he  had  left  his  sister  most  of  the  food; 
and  when  my  footfalls  sounded  uncannily  loud  upon  the 
deck,  she  came  running  out  of  the  cabin,  a  thin-cheeked,  pale, 
glim  woman.  How  she  smiled !  How  the  smile  died  from  her 
face  when  she  saw  it  was  not  her  brother,  but  a  stranger, 
torn,  bloody-bandaged,  ready  to  drop  for  fatigue! 

"  'Tell  me,  tell  me  quickly,  what  has  happened.  Who  are 
you?'  She  steadied  herself  against  the  cabin  doorway.  'Is 
my  brother — not  living?' 

"I  had  not  the  heart  or  the  words  to  tell  her  at  that 
moment  that  I  had  left  her  brother  closing  his  eyes  in  death 
in  my  little  cabin  so  far  away.  I  think  I  asked  le  bon  Dieu 
to  put  words  in  my  mouth  that  would  not  cause  her  to  faint. 
Anyway,  the  words  came  from  me:  'Your  brother  sent  me. 
I  left  him — happy.' 

"  'I  knew  God  would  not  desert  me  entirely,'  she  said. 
'When  will  he  return?' 

"  'When  le  bon  Dieu  leads  the  way,'  I  said,  and  I  told  her 
about  the  pillar  of  cloud  which  had  guided  me  to  her. 

"She  pointed  aloft,  and  T  saw  a  lantern  tied  to  the  mast- 
head. 'I  have  put  it  there  to  light  every  night  until  he 
returns,'  she  said.     'It  will  be  lit  many  a  night,'  said  I  to 


PKUNIEK  TELLS  A  STORY  155 

myself;  and  I  must  have  sighed  aloud,  for  she  looked  curi- 
ously at  me.  '  I  am  cruel ! '  she  exclaimed ;  '  I  must  show  you 
your  room.'  She  said  it  with  almost  a  laugh,  for  it  was  a 
funny  little  bunk  she  led  me  to.  Into  it  I  crawled,  and  off  to 
sleep  I  went,  scarcely  conscious  that  she  washed  the  blood 
from  my  face  and  ministered  to  my  other  wounds.  When  I 
woke,  it  was  the  next  day. 

"And  such  a  day  as  it  was!  one  thick  smother  of  snow 
coming  up  the  great  valley  of  the  St.  Lawrence  on  a  bitter 
wind.  And  bitter  cold  it  was,  too,  in  the  little  cabin  of  our 
schooner,  though  the  fire  in  the  stove  did  its  best.  I  was  too 
sick,  though,  to  know  much  what  was  going  on.  Several  times 
I  heard  the  chopping  of  a  hatchet.  Several  times  she  came 
to  me  with  hot  food.  And  as  the  day  passed,  strength  came 
back  to  my  blood  and  I  got  up.  I  surprised  her  lighting  the 
lantern  and  taking  it  out  into  the  wild  evening.  I  tried  to 
stop  that,  fearing  some  accident  to  her  in  the  roar  and  rush 
of  the  storm,  but  she  said  her  brother  must  be  lighted  back, 
and  so  in  the  end  it  was  I  who  had  to  haul  the  swaying  lan- 
tern to  the  masthead. 

"For  three  days  the  snow  flew  by  and  heaped  an  ever- 
increasing  drift  across  the  deck,  around  the  cabin  door.  On 
the  fourth  day  we  looked  out  on  a  scene  of  desolation.  The 
sun  shone  dimly  in  skies  of  pinching  cold.  There  was  no 
pillar  of  smoke,  the  pool  having  at  last  been  frozen  over. 
There  was  a  wide  river  of  ice,  piled  in  fantastic  floes,  a  wider 
plain,  spotted  here  and  there  with  thickets.  And  far  off 
ran  the  dark  line  of  forest,  inhabited  by  wolves  which  would 
speedily  become  fiercer.  In  the  forest  far  away  stood  my 
little  cabin  with  its  dead  man  keeping  guard.  It  would  be 
long  before  I  should  see  it,  if  I  ever  did.  Without  snowshoes, 
it  would  be  impossible  to  cross  the  forest  now;  without  food, 
we  could  live  only  a  short  time  longer  on  the  ship.  And 
then  I  made  the  discovery  that  our  stove  fire  was  being  main- 
tained by  schooner  wood.  That  had  accounted  for  her  chop- 
ping and  for  her  grave  face  as  she  carried  in  the  wood. 
She  had  been  breaking  up  a  part  of  the  ship  each  day 
to  keep  the  fire  going! 


160  MODEEN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

"The  responsibilities  upon  me  made  me  forget  my  sorrows, 
the  death  of  ole  Pierre,  the  lost  time  for  trapping,  the  pinch 
of  hunger.  I  made  a  makeshift  pair  of  skees  from  two 
plankings  of  the  schooner,  and  journeyed  daily  to  soma 
thicket  by  the  shore  wherein  I  had  set  my  snares,  and  we 
lived  on  rabbit  stew.  With  much  labor  I  cut  a  hole  in  the 
ice,  through  which,  with  much  patience,  she  fished.  But  days 
went  by  when  it  was  too  stormy  either  to  hunt  or  to  fish, 
and  we  sat  huddled  about  the  stove  in  which  we  burned  as 
little  wood  as  we  could  to  keep  from  freezing. 

"During  such  times  we  talked,  but  not  of  the  future, 
only  of  the  past.  She  told  me  how  they,  she  and  her  brother, 
had  set  out  on  a  rumor  of  gold  in  the  Laurentians;  how 
the  crew  had  deserted  in  a  body  with  most  of  the  stores; 
how  she  and  her  brother  had  been  unable  to  man  the  ship 
sufficiently  to  keep  it  from  this  disaster.  A  dozen  times  she 
described  the  scene  where  he  had  said  farewell  to  her  on 
the  morning  of  the  day  he  had  found  me.  A  hundred  times 
she  asked  me  to  tell  her  of  our  meeting;  and  a  thousand, 
I  may  well  say,  she  wondered  how  soon  he  would  return. 

"Every  evening  she  had  me  hang  the  lantern  to  the  mast 
to  guide  him  back.  I  could  not  prevent  it,  except  by  telling 
of  his  death,  and  that  I  could  not  do.  I  feared  that  the 
news,  coupled  with  our  desperate  situation,  would  end  her 
life.  As  it  was,  she  was  far  too  weak  to  travel  now,  even 
if  I  had  had  the  snow-shoes  for  her. 

"Thus  passed  the  first  days.  Then  I  saw  that  something 
must  be  done  or  else  we  should  soon  have  burned  up  the 
house  that  sheltered  us,  deck,  mast,  and  hull,  before  Christ- 
mas. Even  then  we  were  beginning  on  the  walls  of  the 
schooner,  since  she  would  not  let  me  chop  down  the  mast. 

"  'There  will  be  no  place  to  hang  the  lantern  if  you  de- 
stroy that ! '  she  cried,  when  she  had  rushed  out  on  deck 
one  morning,  to  find  me  half-way  through  the  strong  oak. 

"  'Your  brother  will  not  travel  by  night,'  I  said. 

"  'How  do  you  know?'  she  asked,  a  new  harshness  in  her 
tired  voice;  'you,  who  will  tell  me  so  little  about  my  brother!' 


PRUNIER  TELLS  A  STORY  161 

"This  was  an  unkind  reproach,  for  I  had  indeed  stretched 
the  facts  too  much  already  in  order  to  comfort  her. 

"  'We  cannot  freeze,'  I  replied.  'You  would  not  want  him 
to  arrive  and  find  us  dead.  I  have  measured  out  the  fuel 
and  know  it  is  unwise  not  to  begin  on  these  unnecessary  parts 
of  the  ship  first.' 

"  'Do  you  call  my  signal-mast  unnecessary?'  she  called, 
her  two  thin  hands  beating  upon  the  wood.  'You  are  cruel. 
You  would  keep  my  brother  from  me.' 

"From  that  morning  there  began  a  sullenness  between  us, 
which  was  nourished  by  too  little  food,  and  by  being  shut 
up  in  that  bit  of  a  schooner  cabin  too  long  together.  For  re- 
lief's sake,  when  I  was  not  off  snaring  rabbits  or  looking 
for  some  stray  up-river  seal  with  my  revolver  in  my  hand, 
I  began  building  an  igloo,  a  hut  of  snow  you  know,  not  far 
from  the  ship.  I  thought  that  the  time  must  be  prepared 
for  when  we  should  have  chopped  up  our  shelter,  and  have 
pushed  our  home  piecemeal  into  that  devouring  stove. 

"She  made  no  comment  on  my  preparations.  In  fact,  we 
did  not  talk  now,  except  to  say  the  most  necessary  things.  I 
was  not  sorry,  for  it  relieved  me  from  telling  over  and  over 
that  impossible  story  of  her  brother's  return.  I  was  con- 
vinced now  that  he  had  died,  and  my  heart  grieved  for  her 
final  discovery  of  the  news.  But  the  saddest  thing  was  to  see 
the  hunger  for  him  grow  daily  stronger  on  her  face.  And 
it  was  pitiful,  too,  to  watch  her  light  the  lantern  with  hands 
weak  enough  to  tremble,  to  attach  it  to  the  signal-rope,  and 
pull  it  to  the  masthead.  She  would  never  let  me  assist  her 
in  this  act. 

"  'To-morrow  we  must  move,'  I  said  one  night.  'I  have 
completed  the  igloo.    It  will  economize  our  fuel. ' 

' '  She  nodded,  weakly,  as  if  she  cared  little  what  happened 
on  the  morrow. 

"  'And  unless  we  catch  a  seal,  we  must  save  oil,'  I  added. 
The  waste  of  burning  a  lantern  to  attract  a  dead  man's 
notice  had  got  upon  my  nerves.  'Please  do  not  light  it 
to-night,  else  we  will  go  into  the  new  year  dark.' 


162  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

"  'I  shall  not  give  up  my  brother!'  she  cried,  with  all  her 
strength,  'for  he  will  not  give  up  me.  But  why  does  he 
not  come?    Why  does  he  not  come?' 

"It  was  heart- wringing  to  see  her — to  know  what  was  in 
store.  But  it  would  have  been  less  kind  of  me  to  let  this 
deception  go  on. 

"  'He  will  never  come,'  I  said,  as  softly  as  I  could;  'there 
is  no  use  in  the  light.    Let  us  save  oil. ' 

"Her  weary,  searching  eyes  questioned  my  face  for  the 
first  time  in  days,  and  then  she  struck  a  match  and  applied 
it  to  the  wick. 

'  'He  will  come,'  she  said  calmly,  'for  God  will  guide  him, 
and  I  am  helping  God.'  She  went  out  into  the  dusk,  and  I 
heard  the  futile  lantern  being  pulled  up  to  the  masthead. 
I  could  not  bear  to  interfere. 

"So,  since  save  fuel  we  must,  I  began  practising  deceit 
by  stealing  out  the  next  evening,  lowering  the  signal  and 
extinguishing  it,  then  hoisting  the  black  lantern  into  place. 
But  she  guessed ;  and  on  the  second  night,  as  I  had  my  hand 
upon  the  rope  to  lower  it,  she  grasped  my  arm,  her  eyes 
flashing,  her  weak  voice  vibrant  like  the  storm-wind. 

"  'Do  you  dare?'  she  said;  'do  you  dare  betray  me?  You 
do  not  imnt  my  brother.'  And  with  fury  she  grasped  the 
rope  and  jerked  it  from  my  hand.  A  sudden  anger  filled  me. 
"  'Unreasonable  woman,'  I  cried,  'we  must  have  the  mast 
for  firewood;  we  must  have  the  oil  for  light  in  the  igloo! 
Let  me  alone.' 

"  'Let  me  alone!'  she  screamed,  struggling  for  the  rope. 
"It  must  have  been  insecurely  fastened.  At  any  rate,  we 
had  not  been  contending  many  seconds  in  the  darkness  for 
the  control  of  the  light  above  our  heads  when  we  heard  a 
rattle  and  saw  it  coming  down  upon  us.  I  pushed  her  away 
just  in  time.  The  lantern  struck  some  metal,  burst,  and  the 
spattering  oil  caught  fire  in  the  swiftness  of  a  thought. 

' '  For  the  first  moment  we  were  dumb ;  in  the  second,  hor- 
ror-struck. As  a  serpent  darts  its  tongue,  rills  of  oil  spread 
down  the  plank-seams  of  the  deck;  and  from  each  rill,  flame 
leaped  and  ran  about  the  ship.     With   a  wild  shriek,  the 


PRUNIER  TELLS  A  STORY  163 

woman  began  to  carry  snow  from  a  drift  on  the  prow  and 
sprinkle  it  on  the  spreading  conflagration.  She  might  as 
well  have  tried  to  extinguish  it  with  her  tears.  In  two  min- 
utes, yellow  tongues  were  running  up  the  mast — that  mast 
I  had  hoped  would  warm  our  igloo  for  a  fortnight.  In 
three,  there  was  no  hope  of  a  splinter  of  the  cold-dried 
boat  remaining.  I  made  one  plunge  into  the  cabin  and 
grabbed  an  arm-load  of  clothes  and  food,  and  ran  with 
them  to  the  igloo.  But  when  I  had  returned,  there  was  no 
chance  for  a  second  try.  The  cabin  was  a  furnace  of  eager 
flame. 

"The  woman,  the  weeping  cause  of  this,  and  I  were  beaten 
back  by  the  heat,  and  at  the  opening  of  our  only  refuge 
now,  the  hut  of  snow,  we  stood  and  watched  the  swift  de- 
struction of  the  schooner's  hulk.  About  us,  the  night's  dark- 
ness was  driven  to  its  dusky  horizons.  Overhead,  the  zenith 
was  lit  by  the  up-roaring  pillar  of  fire  which  had  so  lately 
been  a  mast,  a  deck,  a  ship.  We  looked  in  silence,  while 
the  tower  of  flame  rushed  into  the  sky,  like  a  signal  to  the 
wilderness.  But  a  signal  of  what?  Two  houseless  indi- 
viduals, robbed  of  their  store  of  food,  with  no  means  of 
moving,  and  nowhere  to  move." 

Prunier  paused,  and  Essex  Lad  drew  a  long  breath.  It 
was  his  first  for  minutes. 

"So  that  was  your  pillar  of  fire?"  I  said,  "It  seems  to 
me  more  like  one  of  Satan's  than  the  Lord's." 

Prunier  made  an  expressive  gesture  with  his  pipe.  "Le 
ton  Dieu  does  all  things  for  the  best,"  he  said  reverently. 
"Alors.  We  stood  there  watching,  the  heat  reaching  us, 
and  even  eating  maliciously  into  the  white  walls  of  our 
last  hiding-place.  But  that  did  not  go  on  long,  for  the 
ship  was  pouring  its  soul  too  lavishly  into  that  hot  pyre  to 
last. 

"  'Quick,'  I  said  to  my  fellow-outcast,  'drink  in  all  the 
heat  you  can,  for  this  is  the  end.' 

"  'And  it  is  my  fault!'  she  said;  'can  you  forgive  me?' 

"  'Can  you?'  I  asked.  'We  must  be  brave  now.  Let  us 
warm  ourselves  while  there  are  coals  to  warm  us.     Let  us 


164  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

warm  our  wits  and  think,  for  before  day  dawns  we  must 
have  a  plan.' 

"  'It  is  too  hard,'  she  said  hopelessly. 

"  'Trust  God  for  one  night  more.  Perhaps  I  can  make 
a  sledge  and  pull  you  to  my  cabin.     There  is  food  there.1 

"  'You  are  too  weak,'  she  said.  And  I  knew  that  she 
was  right. 

"As  the  pillar  of  fire  died  down  until  it  was  a  mere  bright 
spiral  of  gilded  smoke,  and  after  the  sides  of  the  schooner 
had  burned  to  the  water-line,  leaving  great  benches  of  black- 
ened ice  about,  we  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  lessening 
warmth.  Darkness  and  cold  and  the  northern  silence  shut 
us  in. 

"We  spoke  in  whispers,  but  hope  died  in  me  with  the  fad. 
ing  fire.  What  chance  for  escape  was  there  with  a  half, 
starved  woman  across  a  great  snow-plain;  and  then  through 
forests  deep  with  the  first  snows  and  roamed  by  wolves,  whose 
savageries  I  had  tasted? 

"Luckily  there  was  no  wind.  Smaller  and  smaller  was 
the  circle  of  light,  weaker  and  weaker  the  heat.  And  tireder 
and  more  tired  grew  our  heads  that  could  see  no  light  oi 
safety  ahead. 

"I  think,  sitting  close  together  there,  we  dozed.  Cer- 
tainly  not  for  long,  however,  because  the  pillar  of  fire, 
though  now  a  mere  thread,  was  still  pointing  a  finger  into 
le  bon  Diea's  heaven,  when  I  heard  a  crunch,  crunch! 

"  'Wolves!'  I  said  to  myself,  coming  to  my  senses  with 
a  jerk.  I  felt  for  a  revolver,  but  the  only  one  had  been 
left  in  the  cabin. 

"  'Dear  Lord,'  I  prayed,  'spare  us  this.' 

"But  the  crunch  came  nearer,  nearer,  like  the  soft  foot- 
falls of  many  beasts,  yet  not  quite  like  them  either.  I 
grasped  a  black-charred  spar;  ran  it  into  a  heap  of  red  ashes 
to  make  it  as  deadly  a  weapon  as  possible.  A  little  iiame 
sprang  from  the  pile,  and  in  its  light  I  went  to  grapple 
with  this  new  danger. 

"The  woman  had  heard,  and,  with  a  little  scream,  sprang 


"'You  made  a  fine  signal'.  "     (page  165) 


PRUNIEE  TELLS  A  STORY  165 

to  her  feet  and  quickly  came  up  behind  me,  put  her  hand 
upon  me,  and  cried:  'He  has  come!  It  is  my  brother  who 
has  come!' 

"And,  as  in  the  Bible,  where  Monsieur  Moses  spoke  to 
the  rock  and  the  water  gushed  from  it,  so  the  woman  cried 
into  the  dark  and  an  answering  voice  sprang  from  it — a 
voice  as  from  the  dead. 

"I  stood  trembling,  too  weak  to  move. 

"  'You  made  a  fine  signal,'  the  voice  said.  'Thank  God 
for  it!' 

"  'Yes,  thank  le  ton  Dieu,  for  it  was  His  pillar  of  fire,'  I 
said.    'Who  are  you?' 

"  'The  rescued  come  to  rescue,'  he  replied;  'her  brother.' 

"His  sister  had  sunk  upon  the  snow.  As  he  bent  to  pick 
her  up,  I  saw  the  extra  pairs  of  snow-shoes  on  his  back, 
I  noticed  my  toboggan  that  he  was  pulling,  and  the  stores 
of  food  upon  it. 

"  'You  are  strong  again,'  I  said,  wishing  to  pinch  him 
to  see  whether  he  was  he,  or  a  trick  of  some  werewolf  who 
was  deceiving  me. 

"  'Thanks  to  your  food,'  he  said. 

"  'But  you  have  been  long  coming,  brother,'  said  she, 
weakly.    'Why  so  long?' 

"  'All  the  bays  are  much  alike,'  he  explained;  'and  when 
the  Smoky  Pool  was  frozen,  I  lost  my  only  clue.  I  was 
getting  always  farther  away  on  my  hunt,  when  the  Lord 
turned  and  led  me  here  by  His  pillar  of  fire.' 

"And  the  three  of  us,  standing  there  in  the  dark  of 
earliest  dawn  beneath  the  Great  Bear,  we  keep  still  and  say 
three — four  prayers  from  ourselves  to  that  same  Jehovah  who 
had  guided  Monsieur  Moses,  for  the  making  of  us  safe." 

Prunier  ceased  abruptly  and  knocked  out  his  pipe  upon 
the  hearth-side,  then  gazed  reminiscently  out  into  the  fall- 
ing snow. 

I  was  busy  with  the  picture  in  my  brain  of  that  blackened 
hulk,  the  frail  woman  and  her  almost  helpless  companion 


166  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

standing  there  in  the  midst  of  that  gray  waste  of  coming 
dawn.  But  the  Lad's  mind  had  already  gone  scouting  on 
before. 

''And  were  you  made  safe,  Prunier?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  certainement!"  said  the  guide,  almost  drolly. 
"Voyez,  I  am  here." 

"Then  tell  us — "  commanded  the  insatiable  youth. 

"Mais,  cette  une  longue  histoire,"  was  all  we  heard. 


SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  What  means  does  the  author  employ  to  lead  naturally  into  the 

story  of  romantic  adventure? 

2.  What  is  the  advantage  of  introducing  two  ordinary  people  in 

the  very  beginning  of  the  story? 

3.  What  is  the  character  of  Prunier? 

4.  How  do  Prunier's  peculiar  characteristics  aid  the  story? 

5.  How  does  the  author  indicate  Prunier's  way  of  speaking? 

6.  Why  is  the  entire  story  not  told  in  dialect? 

7.  How  does  the  author  present  the  setting  of  the  story? 

8.  What  part  does  the  dog  play  in  the  story? 

9.  What  part  does  superstition  play? 

10.  Point  out  the  three  or  four  most  exciting  parts  of  the  story. 

11.  Explain  how  the  characters  are  saved  from  threatening  dangers. 

12.  In  what  respects  is  the  story  a  narrative  of  contest? 

13.  Why  is  the  narrative  divided  into  two  sections? 

14.  Why  are  the  two   ordinary   people  mentioned   throughout   the 

story? 

15.  What  part  does  religious  faith  play? 

16.  In  what  respects  is  the  second  part  of  the  story  more  intense 

than  the  first  part? 

17.  What  is  the  character  of  the  sister? 

18.  What  is  the  character  of  the  brother? 

19.  How  does  misfortune  turn  into  blessing? 

20.  How  is  the  climax  made  emphatic? 

21.  What  did  Prunier  omit? 

22.  Point  out  the  most  romantic  episodes  in  the  story. 

23.  Point  out  the  most  realistic  touches  in  the  story. 

24.  What  noble  qualities  does  the  story  emphasize? 

25.  How  does  the  story  affect  the  reader Y 


PRUNIER  TELLS  A  STORY  167 


SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 

1.  Prunier's  Return  11.  Prunier's  First  Moose 

2.  The  Brother's  Adventures  12.  Why    Prunier   Lived    in   the 

3.  The  Story  of  the  Shipwreck  North 

4.  The  Mutiny  of  the  Crew  13.  The  Sister's  Return  to  Civ- 

5.  Prunier's  Boyhood  ilization 

6.  How  Prunier  Obtained  Pierre  14.  In  Prunier's  Hut 

7.  Prunier's  Longest  Journey  15.  The  Strange  Visitor 

8.  Why  Prunier  Was  Supersti-  16.  The  End  of  the  Wolves 

tious  17.  Prunier  Tells  Another  Story 

9.  The  Rescue  of  Pierre  18.  The  Sister  Tells  a  Story 
'10.  How   Prunier  Lost   a   Com-     19.  The  Fate  of  the  Deserters 

panion  20.  Prunier's  Last  Day 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

In  the  introduction  of  your  romance  use  familiar  scenes,  events  or 
characters  that  will  lead  naturally  to  a  narrative  of  startling  events. 
Say  enough  to  indicate  the  setting  of  your  story  and  to  make  it  a 
vital  factor  in  producing  effect  but  do  not  write  any  long-drawn 
descriptions  or  explanations.  Let  your  characters  tell  the  story 
and  present  its  setting. 

Make  all  the  action  hinge  on  worthy  effort,  and  contribute  to 
awakening  respect  for  the  characters.  Tell  a  series  of  most  unusual 
events.  In  telling  every  incident  make  full  use  of  suspense  and  of 
climax.  Tell  the  incidents  in  such  a  way  that  one  will  lead  naturally 
to  another. 

Your  story  will  produce  the  most  startling  effect  if  you  show 
your  hero  apparently  defeated  but  able,  at  the  last  moment,  to  find 
a  means  of  escape  from  danger. 

Keep  your  story  true  to  human  nature,  and  to  the  best  ideals  of 
human  nature. 


THE  DIDACTIC  ESSAY 

THE  AMERICAN  BOY 

By  THEODOEE  EOOSEVELT 

(1858-1919).  Twenty-sixth  President  of  the  United  States. 
One  of  the  most  vigorous,  courageous  and  picturesque  figures 
in  the  public  life  of  his  day.  Soon  after  his  graduation  from 
Harvard,  and  from  Columbia  Law  School  he  entered  public 
life,  and  gave  invaluable  service  in  many  positions,  becoming 
President  in  1901,  and  again  in  1904.  His  work  as  an  organizer 
of  the  "Bough  Riders,"  his  skill  in  horsemanship,  his  courage 
as  an  explorer  and  hunter,  and  his  staunch  patriotism  and 
high  ideals  all  made  him  both  interesting  and  beloved.  His  work 
as  an  author  is  alone  sufficient  to  make  him  great.  Among  his 
many  books  are  The  Winning  of  the  West;  The  Strenuous 
Life;   African  Game  Trails;   True  Americanism. 

The  American  Boy  is  a  didactic  essay, — an  essay  that  expresses  the 
writer 's  individuality  and  opinions  and  at  the  same  time  conveys 
instruction  in  the  form  of  inspiration.  Such  an  essay  approaches  the 
oration  and  the  treatise.  It  differs  from  the  oration  in  being  less 
strongly  didactic,  and  from  the  treatise  in  being  less  formal  and 
comprehensive. 

Mr.  Eoosevelt's  personality  is  particularly  evident  in  The  American 
Boy.  In  every  paragraph  the  reader  feels  the  virile  strength,  the 
masterful  force,  the  firm-set  manhood,  the  broad-minded  attitude  toward 
all  things  that  are  good,  and  the  intense  hatred  of  cowardice  and  evil 
that  always  characterized  Mr.  Eoosevelt.  The  writer  is  not  so  much 
telling  a  boy  what  to  do  as  he  is  telling  what  sort  of  boy  he  admires. 

The  force  of  such  an  essay  is  great.  No  one,  boy  or  man,  can  read 
The  American  Boy  without  being  the  better  for  it,  without  himself 
admiring  manliness,  the  right  balance  between  athletics  and  study,  and 
the  ideals  of  courage  and  fair -play. 

Of  course,  what  we  have  a  right  to  expect  of  the  American 
boy  is  that  he  shall  turn  out  to  be  a  good  American  man. 
Now,  the  chances  are  strong  that  he  won 't  be  much  of  a  man 
unless  he  is  a  good  deal  of  a  boy.  He  must  not  be  a  coward 
or  a  weakling,  a  bully,  a  shirk,  or  a  prig.     He  must  wor£ 

168 


THE  AMEKICAN  BOY  169 

hard  and  play  hard.  He  must  be  clean-minded  and  clean- 
lived,  and  able  to  hold  his  own  under  all  circumstances  and 
against  all  comers.  It  is  only  on  these  conditions  that  he 
will  grow  into  the  kind  of  American  man  of  whom  America 
can  be  really  proud. 

There  are  always  in  life  countless  tendencies  for  good 
and  for  evil,  and  each  succeeding  generation  sees  some  of 
these  tendencies  strengthened  and  some  weakened ;  nor  is  it  by 
any  means  always,  alas!  that  the  tendencies  for  evil  are 
weakened  and  those  for  good  strengthened.  But  during  the 
last  few  decades  there  certainly  have  been  some  notable 
changes  for  good  in  boy  life.  The  great  growth  in  the  love 
of  athletic  sports,  for  instance,  while  fraught  with  danger  if 
it  becomes  one-sided  and  unhealthy,  has  beyond  all  question 
had  an  excellent  effect  in  in-reared  manliness.  Forty  or 
fifty  years  ago  the  writer  on  American  morals  was  sure  to 
deplore  the  effeminacy  and  luxury  of  young  Americans  who 
were  born  of  rich  parents.  The  boy  who  was  well  off  then, 
especially  in  the  big  Eastern  cities,  lived  too  luxuriously, 
took  to  billiards  as  his  chief  innocent  recreation,  and  felt 
small  shame  in  his  inability  to  take  part  in  rough  pastimes 
and  field  sports.  Nowadays,  whatever  other  faults  the  son 
of  rich  parents  may  tend  to  develop,  he  is  at  least  forced 
by  the  opinion  of  all  his  associates  of  his  own  age  to  bear 
himself  well  in  manly  exercises  and  to  develop  his  body 
— and  therefore,  to  a  certain  extent,  his  character — in  the 
rough  sports  which  call  for  pluck,  endurance,  and  physical 
address. 

Of  course,  boys  who  live  under  such  fortunate  conditions 
that  they  have  to  do  either  a  good  deal  of  outdoor  work 
or  a  good  deal  of  what  might  be  called  natural  outdoor 
play,  do  not  need  this  athletic  development.  In  the  Civil 
War  the  soldiers  who  came  from  the  prairie  and  the  back- 
woods and  the  rugged  farms  where  stumps  still  dotted  the 
clearings,  and  who  had  learned  to  ride  in  their  infancy, 
to  shoot  as  soon  as  they  could  handle  a  rifle,  and  to  camp 
out  whenever  they  got  the  chance,  were  better  fitted  for 
military  work  than  any  set  of  mere  school  or  college  athletes 


170  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

could  possibly  be.  Moreover,  to  mis-estimate  athletics  is 
equally  bad  whether  their  importance  is  magnified  or  min- 
imized. The  Greeks  were  famous  athletes,  and  as  long  as 
their  athletic  training  had  a  normal  place  in  their  lives,  it 
was  a  good  thing.  But  it  was  a  very  bad  thing  when  they 
kept  up  their  athletic  games  while  letting  the  stern  qualities 
of  soldiership  and  statesmanship  sink  into  disuse.  Some  of 
the  boys  who  read  this  paper  will  certainly  sometime  read 
the  famous  letters  of  the  younger  Pliny,  a  Roman  who 
wrote,  with  what  seems  to  us  a  curiously  modern  touch,  in 
the  first  century  of  the  present  era.  His  correspondence 
with  the  Emperor  Trajan  is  particularly  interesting;  and 
not  the  least  noteworthy  thing  in  it  is  the  tone  of  contempt 
with  which  he  speaks  of  the  Greek  athletic  sports,  treating 
them  as  the  diversions  of  an  unwarlike  people  which  it 
was  safe  to  encourage  in  order  to  keep  the  Greeks  from  turn- 
ing into  anything  formidable.  So  at  one  time  the  Persian 
kings  had  to  forbid  polo,  because  soldiers  neglected  their 
proper  duties  for  the  fascinations  of  the  game.  To-day, 
some  good  critics  have  asserted  that  the  reverses  suffered 
by  the  British  at  the  hands  of  the  Boers  in  South  Africa 
are  in  part  due  to  the  fact  that  the  English  officers  and 
soldiers  have  carried  to  an  unhealthy  extreme  the  sports 
and  pastimes  which  would  be  healthy  if  indulged  in  with 
moderation,  and  have  neglected  to  learn  as  they  should  the 
business  of  their  profession.  A  soldier  needs  to  know  how 
to  shoot  and  take  cover  and  shift  for  himself — not  to  box 
or  play  football.  There  is,  of  course,  always  the  risk  of 
thus  mistaking  means  for  ends.  English  fox-hunting  is  a 
first-class  sport;  but  one  of  the  most  absurd  things  in  real 
life  is  to  note  the  bated  breath  with  which  certain  excellent 
Englishmen,  otherwise  of  quite  healthy  minds,  speak  of 
this  admirable  but  not  over-important  pastime.  They  tend 
to  make  it  almost  as  much  of  a  fetish  as,  in  the  last  cen- 
tury, the  French  and  German  nobles  made  the  chase  of  the 
'jtag,  when  they  carried  hunting  and  game-preserving  to  a 
point  which  was  ruinous  to  the  national  life.  Fox-hunt- 
ing is  very  good  as  a  pastime,  but  it  is  about  as  poor  a 


THE  AMERICAN  BOY  171 

business  as  can  be  followed  by  any  man  of  intelligence.  Cer- 
tain writers  about  it  are  fond  of  quoting  the  anecdote 
of  a  fox-hunter  who,  in  the  days  of  the  English  Civil  War, 
was  discovered  pursuing  his  favorite  sport  just  before  a 
great  battle  between  the  Cavaliers  and  the  Puritans,  and 
right  between  their  lines  as  they  came  together.  These 
writers  apparently  consider  it  a  merit  in  this  man  that  when 
his  country  was  in  a  death-grapple,  instead  of  taking  arms 
and  hurrying  to  the  defense  of  the  cause  he  believed  right, 
he  should  placidly  have  gone  about  his  usual  sports.  Of 
course,  in  reality  the  chief  serious  use  of  fox-hunting  is 
to  encourage  manliness  and  vigor,  and  keep  a  man  so  that 
in  time  of  need  he  can  show  himself  fit  to  take  part  in  work 
or  strife  for  his  native  land.  When  a  man  so  far  confuses 
ends  and  means  as  to  think  that  fox-hunting,  or  polo,  or 
football,  or  whatever  else  the  sport  may  be,  is  to  be  itself 
taken  as  the  end,  instead  of  as  the  mere  means  of  prepara- 
tion to  do  work  that  counts  when  the  time  arises,  when  the 
occasion  calls — why,  that  man  had  better  abandon  sport 
altogether. 

No  boy  can  afford  to  neglect  his  work,  and  with  a  boy 
work,  as  a  rule,  means  study.  Of  course,  there  are  oc- 
casionally brilliant  successes  in  life  where  the  man  has  been 
worthless  as  a  student  when  a  boy.  To  take  these  exceptions 
as  examples  would  be  as  unsafe  as  it  would  be  to  advocate 
blindness  because  some  blind  men  have  won  undying  honor 
by  triumphing  over  their  physical  infirmity  and  accomplish- 
ing great  results  in  the  world.  I  am  no  advocate  of  senseless 
and  excessive  cramming  in  studies,  but  a  boy  should  work, 
and  should  work  hard,  at  his  lessons — in  the  first  place,  for 
the  sake  of  what  he  will  learn,  and  in  the  next  place,  for 
the  sake  of  the  effect  upon  his  own  character  of  resolutely 
settling  down  to  learn  it.  Shiftlessness,  slackness,  indiffer- 
ence in  studying,  are  almost  certain  to  mean  inability  to  get 
on  in  other  walks  of  life.  Of  course,  as  a  boy  grows  older 
it  is  a  good  thing  if  he  can  shape  his  studies  in  the  direction 
toward  which  he  has  a  natural  bent;  but  whether  he  can 
do  this  or  not,  he  must  put  his  whole  heart  into  them.     I 


172  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

do  not  believe  in  mischief-doing  in  school  hours,  or  in  the 
kind  of  animal  spirits  that  results  in  making  bad  scholars; 
and  I  believe  that  those  boys  who  take  part  in  rough,  hard 
play  outside  of  school  will  not  find  any  need  for  horse- 
play in  school.  While  they  study  they  should  study  just 
as  hard  as  they  play  football  in  a  match  game.  It  is  wise 
to  obey  the  homely  old  adage,  "Work  while  you  work;  play 
while  you  play." 

A  boy  needs  both  physical  and  moral  courage.  Neither 
can  take  the  place  of  the  other.  When  boys  become  men 
they  will  find  out  that  there  are  some  soldiers  very  brave 
in  the  field  who  have  proved  timid  and  worthless  as  poli- 
ticians, and  some  politicians  who  show  an  entire  readiness 
to  take  chances  and  assume  responsibilities  in  civil  affairs, 
but  who  lack  the  fighting  edge  when  opposed  to  physical 
danger.  In  each  case,  with  soldiers  and  politicians  alike, 
there  is  but  half  a  virtue.  The  possession  of  the  courage 
of  the  soldier  does  not  excuse  the  lack  of  courage  in  the 
statesman,  and  even  less  does  the  possession  of  the  courage 
of  the  statesman  excuse  shrinking  on  the  field  of  battle. 
Now,  this  is  all  just  as  true  of  boys.  A  coward  who  will 
take  a  blow  without  returning  it  is  a  contemptible  creature ; 
but,  after  all,  he  is  hardly  as  contemptible  as  the  boy  who 
dares  not  stand  up  for  what  he  deems  right  against  the 
sneers  of  his  companions  who  are  themselves  wrong.  Ridicule 
is  one  of  the  favorite  weapons  of  wickedness,  and  it  is  some- 
times incomprehensible  how  good  and  brave  boys  will  be 
influenced  for  evil  by  the  jeers  of  associates  who  have  no 
one  quality  that  calls  for  respect,  but  who  affect  to  laugh  at 
the  very  traits  which  ought  to  be  peculiarly  the  cause  for 
pride. 

There  is  no  need  to  be  a  prig.  There  is  no  need  for  a  boy 
to  preach  about  his  own  good  conduct  and  virtue.  If 
he  does  he  will  make  himself  offensive  and  ridiculous.  But 
there  is  urgent  need  that  he  should  practise  decency;  that 
he  should  be  clean  and  straight,  honest  and  truthful,  gentle 
and  tender,  as  well  as  brave.  If  he  can  once  get  to  a  proper 
understanding  of  things,  he   will   have  a  far  morp  hearty 


THE  AMERICAN  BOY  173 

contempt  for  the  boy  who  has  begun  a  course  of  feeble  dis- 
sipation, or  who  is  untruthful,  or  mean,  or  dishonest,  or 
cruel,  than  this  boy  and  his  fellows  can  possibly,  in  re- 
turn, feel  for  him.  The  very  fact  that  the  boy  should  be 
manly  and  able  to  hold  his  own,  that  he  should  be  ashamed 
to  submit  to  bullying  without  instant  retaliation,  should,  in 
return,  make  him  abhor  any  form  of  bullying,  cruelty,  or 
brutality. 

There  are  two  delightful  books,  Thomas  Hughes's  "Tom 
Brown  at  Rugby,"  and  Aldrich's  "Story  of  a  Bad  Boy," 
which  I  hope  every  boy  still  reads;  and  I  think  American 
boys  will  always  feel  more  in  sympathy  with  Aldrich's  story, 
because  there  is  in  it  none  of  the  fagging,  and  the  bullying 
which  goes  with  fagging,  the  account  of  which,  and  the  ac- 
ceptance of  which,  always  puzzle  an  American  admirer  of 
Tom  Brown. 

There  is  the  same  contrast  between  two  stories  of  Kipling's. 
One,  called  "Captains  Courageous,"  describes  in  the  liveliest 
Way  just  what  a  boy  should  be  and  do.  The  hero  is  painted 
in  the  beginning  as  the  spoiled,  over-indulged  child  of  wealthy 
parents,  of  a  type  which  we  do  sometimes  unfortunately 
see,  and  than  which  there  exist  few  things  more  objectionable 
on  the  face  of  the  broad  earth.  This  boy  is  afterward  thrown 
on  his  own  resources,  amid  wholesome  surroundings,  and 
is  forced  to  work  hard  among  boys  and  men  who  are  real 
boys  and  real  men  doing  real  work.  The  effect  is  invaluable. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  one  wishes  to  find  types  of  boys  to 
be  avoided  with  utter  dislike,  one  will  find  them  in  another 
story  by  Kipling,  called  "Stalky  &  Co.,"  a  story  which  ought 
never  to  have  been  written,  for  there  is  hardly  a  single 
form  of  meanness  which  it  does  not  seem  to  extol,  or  of  school 
mismanagement  which  it  does  not  seem  to  applaud.  Bullies 
do  not  make  brave  men;  and  boys  or  men  of  foul  life  can- 
not become  good  citizens,  good  Americans,  until  they  change ; 
and  even  after  the  change  scars  will  be  left  on  their  souls. 

The  boy  can  best  become  a  good  man  by  being  a  good 
boy — not  a  goody-goody  boy,  but  just  a  plain  good  boy.  I 
do  not  mean  that  he  must  love  only  the  negative  virtues; 


174  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

I  mean  he  must  love  the  positive  virtues  also.  "Good,"  in 
the  largest  sense,  should  include  whatever  is  fine,  straight- 
forward, clean,  brave,  and  manly.  The  best  boys  I  know — 
the  best  men  I  know — are  good  at  their  studies  or  their 
business,  fearless  and  stalwart,  hated  and  feared  by  all  that 
is  wicked  and  depraved,  incapable  of  submitting  to  wrong- 
doing, and  equally  incapable  of  being  aught  but  tender  to 
the  weak  and  helpless.  A  healthy-minded  boy  should  feel 
hearty  contempt  for  the  coward,  and  even  more  hearty  in- 
dignation for  the  boy  who  bullies  girls  or  small  boys,  or 
tortures  animals.  One  prime  reason  for  abhorring  cowards 
is  because  every  good  boy  should  have  it  in  him  to  thrash 
the  objectionable  boy  as  the  need  arises. 

Of  course,  the  effect  that  a  thoroughly  manly,  thoroughly 
straight  and  upright  boy  can  have  upon  the  companions 
of  his  own  age,  and  upon  those  who  are  younger,  is  in- 
calculable. If  he  is  not  thoroughly  manly,  then  they  will 
not  respect  him,  and  his  good  qualities  will  count  for  but 
little;  while,  of  course,  if  he  is  mean,  cruel,  or  wicked,  then 
his  physical  strength  and  force  of  mind  merely  make  him 
so  much  the  more  objectionable  a  member  of  society.  He 
cannot  do  good  work  if  he  is  not  strong,  and  does  not  try 
with  his  whole  heart  and  soul  to  count  in  any  contest;  and 
his  strength  will  be  a  curse  to  himself  and  to  every  one  else 
if  he  does  not  have  thorough  command  over  himself  and 
over  his  own  evil  passions,  and  if  he  does  not  use  his  strength 
on  the  side  of  decency,  justice,  and  fair  dealing. 

In  short,  in  life,  as  in  a  football  game,  the  principle 
to  follow  is: 

Hit  the  line  hard;  don't  foul  and  don't  shirk,  but  hit 
the  line  hard! 


SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  In  a  single  sentence  express  Mr.  Roosevelt's  principal  thought. 

2.  Point  out  the  subordinate  thoughts  that  aid  the  development  of 

the  essay. 

3.  Point  out  examples  of  antithesis. 


THE  AMERICAN  BOY  175 

4.  Show  how  Mr.  Roosevelt  gains  power  by  the  use  of  short  and 

common  words. 

5.  Describe  the  sort  of  boy  whom  Mr.  Roosevelt  does  not  admire. 

6.  Describe  the  sort  of  boy  whom  Mr.  Roosevelt  does  admire. 

7.  What  is  Mr.  Roosevelt's  opinion  of  the  value  of  athletics? 

8.  What   is   Mr.   Roosevelt's   opinion   of  the  relative   position   of 

study  and  of  athletics? 

9.  What  sort  of  books  for  boys  does  Mr.  Roosevelt  admire? 
10.  What  is  the  effect  of  the  last  sentence? 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 


1. 

The  American  Girl 

11. 

Fearlessness 

2. 

The  American  Man 

12. 

Physical  Strength 

3. 

The  American  Woman 

13. 

Fair  Play 

4, 

The  Good  Athlete 

14. 

Energy 

5. 

The  Good  Student 

15. 

The  Under  Dog 

6. 

The  True  Aristocrat 

16. 

American  Ideals 

7. 

The  Truly  Rich 

17. 

Success  in  Life 

8. 

The  Ideal  of  Work 

18. 

Skill 

9. 

Good  Reading 

19. 

A  Good  Time 

.0. 

Good  Citizenship 

20. 

Manliness 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

Your  subject  must  be  one  on  which  you  have  strong  convictions 
as  the  result  of  personal  experience.  In  a  certain  sense,  your 
essay  must  represent  your  own  life.  Try  to  hold  forward  no  ideals 
that  you  yourself  do  not  uphold. 

Formulate  a  strong  central  thought,  and  two  or  three  subordinate 
and  supporting  thoughts.  When  you  have  done  this  develop  your 
essay  step  by  step,  giving  examples  drawn  from  history  or  from 
well-known  facts.  Mention  books  that  set  forward  the  ideals  you 
wish  to  emphasize. 

Write  in  a  strong,  forceful,  almost  commanding  style,  but  do  not 
say  "Thus  and  so  shalt  thou  do."  Speak  in  strong  terms  of  the 
principles  that  you  admire  but  leave  your  readers  to  draw  value 
from  the  enthusiasm  of  your  words  rather  than  information  from 
directions  given. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  ADVENTURE 

By  HILDEGARDE  HAWTHORNE 

Daughter  of  Julian  Hawthorne,  and  grand-daughter  of 
Nathaniel  Hawthorne.  She  writes  with  rare  charm  and  literary 
power,  and  contributes  regularly  to  many  periodicals.  Among 
her  books  are:  A  Country  Interlude;  The  Lure  of  the  Garden; 
Old  Seaport  Towns  of  New  England;  Girls  in  Bookland. 

The  article  that  follows  is  much  like  an  oration  or  an  editorial  article 
in  that  it  is  directed  to  "you"  rather  than  expressive  of  "I".  The 
true  essay  is  not  concerned  with  "you":  it  is  concerned  only  with  "I". 

Both  the  oration  and  the  editorial  article  have  much  in  common  with  the 
essay  type;  for  both  turn  aside  frequently  into  the  happy  fields  of 
meditation. 

The  first  three  paragraphs  of  The  Spirit  of  Adventure  are  purely 
personal  in  nature  and  therefore  wholly  in  keeping  with  the  spirit  of 
the  essay  form.  Furthermore,  those  paragraphs, — so  reminiscent  of  the 
fancy  of  the  writer  's  famous  grandfather,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne, — rep- 
resent poetic  prose.  Throughout  the  article  the  personal  note  mingles 
with  the  directing  voice  of  the  editorial  article.  Indeed,  it  would  be 
easy  to  drop  from  The  Spirit  of  Adventure  everything  that  is  not 
personal,   and   thereby  to   leave   pure   essay. 

As  it  stands,  The  Spirit  of  Adventure  is  a  didactic  essay,  brave  and 
strong  in  its  thought,  and  poetic  in  its  style. 

Wind  has  always  seemed  wonderful  and  beautiful  to  me. 

Invisible  as  it  is,  it  pervades  the  whole  world.  It  has  the 
very  quality  of  life.  Without  wind,  how  dead  and  still  the 
world  would  be!  In  the  autumn,  wind  shakes  the  leaves 
free  and  sends  them  flying,  gold  and  red.  It  takes  the  seeds 
of  many  plants  and  sows  them  over  the  land.  It  blows  away 
mists  and  sets  clouds  to  voyaging,  brings  rain  and  fair 
weather  the  year  round,  builds  up  snow  in  fantastic  palaces, 
rolls  the  waves  high,  murmurs  a  fairy  music  in  the  pines  and 
shouts  aloud  in  storms.  Wind  is  the  great  adventurer  of 
nature.  Sometimes  it  is  so  fierce  and  terrible  that  nothing 
can  stand   before  it — houses  are  torn  to  shreds,  trees  are 

176 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  ADVENTURE  177 

felled,  ruin  follows  where  it  goes.  At  other  times,  it  comes 
marching  wet  and  salt  from  the  sea,  or  dry  and  keen  from 
the  mountains  on  hot  summer  days,  bringing  ease  and  rest 
and  health.  Keen  as  a  knife,  it  whips  over  the  frozen  ground 
in  winter  and  screams  wildly  round  the  farm-house,  taps  the 
panes  with  ghost  fingers,  and  whistles  like  a  sprite  in  the 
chimney.  It  brings  sails  from  land  to  land,  turns  windmills 
in  quaint  foreign  places,  and  sets  the  flags  of  all  the  coun- 
tries of  the  world  fluttering  on  their  high  staffs. 

Wind  is  nature's  spirit  of  adventure,  keeping  her  world 
vigorous,  clean,  and  alive. 

For  us,  too,  the  spirit  of  adventure  is  the  fine  wind  of 
life,  and  if  we  have  it  not,  or  lose  it,  either  as  individual 
or  nation,  then  we  begin  to  die,  our  force  and  freshness 
depart,  we  stop  in  our  tracks,  and  joy  vanishes.  For  joy 
is  a  thing  of  movement  and  energy,  of  striving  forward, 
a  thing  of  hope  as  well  as  fruition.  You  must  be  thor- 
oughly alive  to  be  truly  joyful,  and  all  the  great  things 
accomplished  by  men  and  nations  have  been  accomplished 
by  vigorous  and  active  souls,  not  content  to  sit  still  and 
hold  the  past,  but  eager  to  press  on  and  to  try  undiscovered 
futures. 

If  ever  a  nation  was  founded  on,  and  built  up  by,  the 
spirit  of  adventure,  that  nation  is  our  own.  The  very  find- 
ing of  it  was  the  result  of  a  splendid  upspring  of  that  spirit. 
From  then  on  through  centuries  it  was  only  men  in  whom 
the  spirit  of  adventure  was  strong  as  life  itself  who  reached 
our  shores.  Great  adventurers,  on  they  came,  borne  as  they 
should  be,  by  wind  itself!  Gallant  figures,  grim  figures, 
moved  by  all  sorts  of  lures  and  impulses,  yet  one  and  all 
stirred  and  led  by  the  call  of  adventure,  that  cares  nothing 
for  ease  of  body  or  safety,  for  old,  tried  rules  and  set  ways 
and  trodden  paths,  but  passionately  for  freedom  and  effort, 
for  what  is  strange  and  dangerous  and  thrilling,  for  tasks 
that  call  on  brain  and  body  for  quick,  new  decisions  and 
acts. 

The  spirit  of  adventure  did  not  die  with  the  settling  of 
our  shores.     Following   the   sea   adventures   came   those   of 


178  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

the  land,  the  pioneers,  who  went  forward  undismayed  by  the 
perils  and  obstacles  that  appeared  quite  as  insurmountable 
as  did  the  uncharted  seas  to  Columbus's  men.  Think  of  the 
days,  when  next  you  ride  across  our  great  continent  in 
the  comfort  of  a  Pullman,  when  it  took  five  months  and  more 
to  make  the  same  journey  with  ox-teams.  Think  how  day 
followed  day  for  those  travelers  across  the  Great  Plains  in 
a  sort  of  changeless  spell,  where  they  topped  long  slow  rise 
after  long  slow  rise  only  to  see  the  seemingly  endless  pan- 
orama stretch  on  before  them.  Think  how  they  passed  the 
ghastly  signs  of  murdered  convoys  gone  before,  and  yet 
pressed  on.  Think  how  they  settled  here  and  there  in  new 
strange  places  where  never  the  foot  of  men  like  themselves 
had  been  set  before,  and  proceeded  to  build  homes  and  till 
the  land,  rifle  in  hand;  think  how  their  wives  reared  their 
children  and  kept  their  homes  where  never  a  white  child 
or  a  Christian  home  had  been  before. 

Where  should  we  be  to-day  but  for  such  men  and  women — 
if  this  wind  of  the  spirit  had  never  blown  through  men's 
hearts  and  fired  them  on  to  follow  its  call,  as  the  wind  blows 
a  flame? 

Wherever  you  look  here  in  America  you  can  see  the  signs 
and  traces  of  this  wonderful  spirit.  In  old  towns,  like 
Provincetown  or  Gloucester,1  you  still  hear  tales  of  the  whale- 
fisheries,  and  still  see  boats  fare  out  to  catch  cod  and  mackerel 
on  the  wild  and  dangerous  Banks.  But  in  the  past,  the  fishers 
sailed  away  for  a  year  or  two,  round  the  globe  itself,  after 
their  game!  You  see  the  spirit's  tracks  along  the  barren 
banks  of  the  Sacramento,2  where  the  gold-seekers  fronted  the 
wilderness  after  treasure,  and  in  Alaska  it  walks  incarnate. 
It  is  hewing  its  way  in  forests  and  digging  it  in  mines;  it 
is  building  bridges  and  plants  in  the  deserts  and  the  moun- 
tains. Out  it  goes  to  the  islands  of  the  Pacific,  and  in 
Africa  it  finds  a  land  after  its  heart. 

1  Provincetown  or  Gloucester.     Famous  sea-coast  towns  on  the  coast 
of  Massachusetts. 

2  Sacramento.     A  river  of  California,  near  which  gold  was  discovered 
in  1848. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  ADVENTURE  179 

How  much  of  this  spirit  lives  in  you? 

I  tell  you,  when  I  hear  a  girl  or  a  boy  say:  "This  place 
is  good  enough  for  me.  I  can  get  a  good  job  round  the  cor- 
ner !  I  know  all  the  folks  in  town ;  and  I  don 't  see  any  reason 
for  bothering  about  how  they  live  in  other  places  or  what 
they  do  away  from  here ' ' ;  when  I  hear  that  sort  of  talk  from 
young  people,  my  heart  sinks  a  bit. 

For  such  boys  and  girls  there  is  no  golden  call  of  adventure, 
no  lure  of  wonder  by  day  and  night,  no  desire  to  measure 
their  strength  against  the  world,  no  hope  of  something 
finer  and  more  beautiful  than  what  they  have  as  yet  known 
or  seen. 

I  like  the  boy  or  girl  who  sighs  after  a  quest  more  diffi- 
cult than  the  trodden  trail,  who  wants  more  of  life  than 
the  assurance  of  a  good  job.  I  know  very  well  that  the  home- 
keeping  lad  has  a  stout  task  to  perform  and  a  good  life 
to  live.  But  I  know,  too,  that  if  the  youth  of  a  nation  loses 
its  love  of  adventure,  if  that  wild  and  moving  spirit  passes 
from  it,  then  the  nation  is  close  to  losing  its  soul.  It  has 
about  reached  the  limit  of  its  power  and  growth. 

So  much  in  our  daily  existence  works  against  this  noble 
spirit,  disapproves  it,  fears  it.  People  are  always  ready  to 
prove  that  there  is  neither  sense  nor  profit  in  it.  Why 
should  you  sail  with  Drake  3  and  Frobisher,4  or  march  with 
Fremont 5  or  track  the  forest  with  Boone,6  when  it  is  so 
much  easier  and  safer  and  pays  better  to  stay  at  home  ?  Why 
shouldn't  you  be  content  to  do  exactly  like  the  people  about 
you,  and  live  the  life  that  is  already  marked  out  for  you 
to  live  ? 

86ir  Francis  Drake  (1540-1596).  A  great  English  sailor  and  naval 
commander.  He  was  the  first  Englishman  to  circumnavigate  the  earth, 
and  was  one  of  the  commanders  in  the  fight  with  the  Spanish  Armada, 
1888. 

*  Sir  Martin  Frobisher  (1535-1594).  The  discoverer  of  Frobisher 
Bay;  one  of  the  leaders  against  the  Spanish  Armada. 

"John  C.  Fremont  (1813-1890).  An  American  general  noted  for  his 
explorations  of  the  West. 

•Daniel  Boone  (1735-1820).  An  early  American  explorer,  pioneer 
and  Indian  fighter. 


180  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

That  is  what  most  of  us  will  do.  But  that  is  no  reason 
why  the  glorious  spirit  of  adventure  should  be  denied  and 
reviled.  It  is  the  great  spirit  of  creation  in  our  race.  If 
it  stirs  in  you,  listen  to  it,  be  glad  of  it. 

A  mere  restless  impulse  to  move  about,  the  necessity  to 
change  your  environment  or  else  be  bored,  the  dissatisfaction 
with  your  condition  that  leads  to  nothing  but  ill  temper  or 
melancholy,  these  are  not  part  of  the  spirit  of  which  I  am 
speaking.  You  may  develop  the  spirit  of  adventure  with- 
out stirring  from  home,  for  it  is  not  ruled  by  the  body 
and  its  movements.  Great  and  high  adventure  may  be  yours 
in  the  home  where  you  now  live,  if  you  realize  that  home 
as  a  part  of  the  great  world,  as  a  link  of  the  vast  chain 
of  life.  Two  boys  can  sit  side  by  side  on  the  same  hearth- 
stone, and  in  one  the  spirit  of  adventure  is  living  and 
calling,  in  the  other  it  is  dead.  To  the  first,  life  will  be  an 
opportunity  and  a  beckoning.  He  will  be  ready  to  give 
himself  for  the  better  future ;  he  will  be  ready  to  strike  hands 
with  the  fine  thought  and  generous  endeavor  of  the  whole 
world,  bringing  to  his  own  community  the  fruit  of  great 
things,  caring  little  for  the  ease  and  comfort  of  his  body, 
but  much  for  the  possibilities  of  a  finer,  truer  realization 
of  man's  eternal  struggle  toward  a  purer  liberty  and  a 
nobler  life.  The  spirit  of  adventure  is  a  generous  spirit, 
kindling  to  great  appeals.  Of  the  two  boys,  sitting  there 
together,  the  second  may  perhaps  go  round  the  world,  but 
to  him  there  will  be  no  song  and  no  wonder.  He  will  not 
find  adventure,  because  he  has  it  not.  The  old  phrase,  "ad- 
ventures to  the  adventurous,"  is  a  true  saying.  The  selfish 
and  the  small  of  soul  know  no  adventures. 

As  I  think  of  America  to-day,  I  say  the  spirit  that  found 
and  built  her  must  maintain  her.  There  are  great  things 
to  be  done  for  America  in  the  coming  years,  in  your  years. 
Her  boundaries  are  fixed,  but  within  those  boundaries  marvel- 
ous development  is  possible.  Her  government  has  found  its 
form,  but  there  is  work  for  the  true  adventurer  in  seeing 
that  the  spirit  of  that  government,  in  all  its  endless  ramifica- 
tions and  expressions,  fulfils  the  intention  of  human  liberty 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  ADVENTURE  181 

and  well-being  that  lie  within  that  form.  Her  relations 
with  the  world  ouside  of  herself  are  forming  anew,  and  here 
too  there  is  labor  of  the  noblest.  The  lad  who  cares  only 
for  his  own  small  job  and  his  own  small  comforts,  who  dreads 
the  rough  contacts  of  life  and  the  dangers  of  pioneering  will 
not  help  America  much. 

In  the  older  days  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  cast  aside  every 
comfort  of  life  to  follow  the  call  of  liberty,  coming  to  a 
wilderness  so  remote,  that  for  us  a  voyage  to  some  star 
would  scarcely  seem  more  distant  or  strange.  None  of 
us  will  be  called  upon  to  do  so  tremendous  a  thing  as 
that  act  of  theirs,  so  far  as  the  conditions  of  existence  go, 
since  the  telegraph  and  the  aeroplane  and  turbine  knit  us 
close.  But  there  are  adventures  quite  as  magnificent  to  be 
achieved. 

The  spirit  of  adventure  loves  the  unknown.  And  in  the 
unknown  we  shall  find  all  the  wonders  that  are  waiting  for 
us.  Our  whole  life  is  lived  on  the  very  border  of  unknown 
things,  but  only  the  adventurous  spirit  reaches  out  to  these 
and  makes  them  known,  and  widens  the  horizons  for  human- 
ity. The  very  essence  of  the  spirit  of  adventure  is  in  doing 
something  no  one  has  done  before.  Every  highroad  was 
once  a  trail,  every  trail  had  its  trail-breaker,  setting  his  foot 
where  no  man's  foot  had  gone  before  through  what  new  for- 
ests and  over  what  far  plains. 

It  is  good  to  ride  at  ease  on  the  broad  highway,  with  every 
turning  marked  and  the  rules  all  kept.  But  it  is  not  the 
whole  of  life.  The  savor  of  lonely  dawns,  the  call  of  an  un- 
known voice,  the  need  to  establish  new  frontiers  of  spirit 
and  action  beyond  any  man  has  yet  set,  these  are  also  part 
of  life.  Do  not  forego  them.  You  are  young  and  the  world 
is  before  you.  Be  among  those  who  perceive  all  its  variety,  its 
potentialities,  who  can  see  good  in  the  new  and  unknown, 
and  find  joy  in  hazard  and  strength  in  effort.  Do  not  be 
afraid  of  strange  manners  and  customs,  nor  think  a  thing 
is  wrong  because  it  is  different. 

Throw  wide  the  great  gates  of  adventure  in  your  soul, 
young  America! 


182  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 


SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  Point  out  effects  that  have  been  gained  by  the  use  of  figures  of 

speech. 

2.  What  is  the  relation  of  the  first  three  paragraphs  to  the  remain- 

der of  the  essay? 

3.  Point  out  the  parts  of  The  Spirit  of  Adventure  that  depart  from 

the  strict  form  of  the  essay. 

4.  Indicate  what  may  be  omitted  in  order  to  make  The  Spirit  of 

Adventure  truly  an  essay. 

5.  How  many  historical  allusions  are  made  in  the  essay? 

6.  Explain  the  most  important  historical  allusions. 

7.  What  does  the  writer  mean  by  "the  spirit  of  adventure"? 

8.  What  does  she  say  is  the  importance  of  such  a  spirit? 

9.  How  can  an  ordinary  person  carry  out  the  writer's  wishes? 

10.  How  does  the  style  of  the  essay  strengthen  the  presentation  of 
thought? 


SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 

1.  Love  of  Truth  11.  The  Snow 

2.  The  Spirit  of  Fair  Play  12.  Falling  Leaves 

3.  The  Sense  of  Honor  13.  The  Ocean 

4.  Stick-to-it-iveness  14.  The  Storm 

5.  Faithfulness  15.  Moonlight 

6.  School  Spirit  16.  The  Voice  of  Thunder 

7.  Loyalty  17.  Flowers 

8.  The  Scientific  Spirit  18.  The  Friendly  Trees 

9.  Work  19.  Country  Brooks 
10.  The  Spirit  of  Helpfulness  20.  Gentle  Rain 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

If  you  wish  to  write  two  or  three  paragraphs  of  poetic  prose  in 
imitation  of  the  first  three  paragraphs  of  The  Spirit  of  Adventure 
choose  one  of  the  topics  in  the  second  column.  Write,  first  of  all, 
a  sentence  that  will  summarize  your  principal  thought,  a  sentence 
that  will  correspond  with  the  sentence  that  forms  the  third  para- 
graph of  Miss  Hawthorne's  essay.  Then  lead  up  to  this  sentence  by 
writing  a  series  of  sentences  full  of  fancy.     Use  figures  of  speech 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  ADVENTURE  183 

freely.  Arrange  your  words,  phrases  or  clauses  so  that  you  will 
produce  both  striking  effects  and  also  rhythm. 

If  you  wish  to  write  in  imitation  of  the  entire  essay  choose  one  of 
the  topics  in  the  first  column.  Begin  your  work  by  writing  a  series 
of  poetic  paragraphs  that  will  present  the  spirit  of  your  essay. 
Continue  to  write  in  a  somewhat  poetic  style,  but  make  many  definite 
allusions  to  history,  literature  or  the  facts  of  life. 

Throughout  your  work  express  your  own  personality  as  much  as 
you  can.  End  your  essay  by  making  some  personal  appeal  but  do 
<iot  make  your  work  too  didactic. 


VANISHING  NEW  YORK 

By  EOBERT  and  ELIZABETH  SHACKLETON 

Bobert  ShacJcleton  (1860 — )  and  his  wife,  Elizabeth  Shackle- 
ton,  have  written  much  in  collaboration.  Among  such  works 
are:  The  Quest  of  the  Colonial;  Adventures  in  Home  Making; 
The  Charm  of  the  Antique.  Mr.  Shackleton  was  at  one  time 
associate  editor  of  The  Saturday  Evening  Post.  He  is  the 
author  of  many  books,  among  which  are  Touring  Great  Britain; 
History  of  Harper's  Magazine,  and  The  Book  of  New  York. 

Washington  Irving 's  Sketch  Book  tells  of  Irving 's  delighted  wander 
ings  around  old  London,  and  of  his  interest  in  streets  and  buildings  that 
awoke  memories  of  the  past.  Vanishing  New  York  is  an  essay  that 
corresponds  closely  with  the  essays  written  by  Irving  so  many  years  ago. 
In  this  modern  essay  Robert  and  Elizabeth  Shackleton  tell  of  their 
wanderings  about  old  New  York,  of  odd  streets,  curious  buildings,  and 
romantic  and  historic  associations.  The  essay  gives  to  New  York  an 
interest  that  makes  it,  in  the  eyes  of  the  reader,  as  fascinating  as 
Irving 's  old  London. 

The  writers  do  more  than  tell  the  story  of  a  walk  about  New  York, 
and  much  more  than  merely  name  and  describe  the  places  they  saw.  By 
a  skilful  use  of  adjectives,  and  by  an  interested  suggestiveness,  they 
throw  over  the  places  they  mention  an  atmosphere  of  charm.  We  feel 
that  we  are  with  them,  enjoying  and  loving  the  curious  old  places  that 
seem  so  destined  to  vanish  forever. 

What  is  left  of  old  New  York  that  is  quaint  and  charming?  The 
New  York  of  the  eighties  and  earlier,  of  Henry  James,'  of  Gramercy 
Park,  Washington  and  Stuyvesant  squares,  quaint  old  houses  on  curious 
by-streets?  The  period  of  perhaps  a  more  beautiful  and  certainly  a 
more  leisurely  existence?  All  places  of  consequence  and  interest  that 
remain  to-day  are  herewith  described. 

To  one,  vanishing  New  York  means  a  little  box  garden  up 
in  the  Bronx,  glimpsed  just  as  the  train  goes  into  the  sub- 
way. To  another,  it  is  a  fan-light  on  Horatio  Street;  an 
old  cannon,  planted  muzzle  downward  at  a  curb-edge;  a 
long-watched,  ancient  mile-stone ;  a  well ;  a  water-tank  bound 

1  Henry  James  (1843-1916).  An  American  novelist  noted  for  strik- 
ingly analytical  novels.     His  boyhood  home  was  on  Washington  Square. 

184 


VANISHING  NEW  YORK  1& 

up  in  a  bank  charter ;  a  Bowling  Green  sycamore ;  an  ailantus 
beside  the  twin  French  houses  of  crooked  Commerce  Street. 
And  what  a  pang  to  find  an  old  landmark  gone !  To  an- 
other it  is  the  sad  little  iron  arch  of  the  gate  of  old  St.  John 's 
at  the  end  of  the  once-while  quaint  St.  John's  Place,  all 
that  is  now  left  of  the  beautiful  pillared  and  paneled  old 
church  and  its  English-made  wrought-iron  fence.  To  many 
it  is  the  loss  of  the  New  York  sky-line,  one  of  the  wonders 
of  the  world — lost,  for  it  has  vanished  from  sight.  Now 
the  sky-line  is  to  be  seen  only  from  the  water,  and  the  city 
is  no  longer  approached  by  water  except  by  a  few;  but  ii 
entered  under  the  rivers  on  each  side,  by  tunnels  down  into 
which  the  human  currents  are  plunged.  A  positive  thrill,  a 
morning-and-evening  thrill  that  was  almost  a  worship  of 
the  noble  and  the  beautiful,  used  to  sweep  over  the  packed 
thousands  on  the  ferry-boats  as  they  gazed  at  the  sky-line. 

It  is  extraordinary  how  swiftly  New  York  destroys  and 
rebuilds.  There  is  the  story  of  a  distinguished  visitor  who, 
driven  uptown  on  the  forenoon  of  his  arrival,  was,  on  his 
departure  in  the  late  afternoon  of  the  same  day,  driven 
downtown  over  the  same  route  in  order  that  he  might  see 
what  changes  had  meanwhile  taken  place.  The  very  first 
vessel  built  in  New  York — it  was  three  hundred  years  ago — 
was  named  in  the  very  spirit  of  prophecy,  for  it  was  called 
the  Onrust  (Restless). 

Yet  it  is  astonishing  how  much  of  interest  remains  in  this 
iconoclastic  city,  although  almost  everything  remains  under 
constant  threat  of  destruction.  Far  over  toward  the  North 
River  is  one  of  the  threatened  survivals.  It  is  shabby,  an- 
cient; indeed,  it  has  been  called  the  oldest  building  in  New 
York,  though  nothing  certain  is  known  beyond  1767.  But 
it  is  very  old,  and  may  easily  date  much  further  back.  It 
is  called  the  Clam  Broth  House,  and  is  on  Weehawken 
Street,  which,  closely  paralleling  West  Street,  holds  its  single 
block  of  length  north  from  Christopher.  It  is  a  lost  and 
forgotten  street,  primitively  cobblestoned  with  the  worst  pave- 
ment in  New  York,  and  it  holds  several  lost  and  forlorn  old 
houses — low-built  houses,  with  great  broad,  sweeping  roofs 


186  MODEEN  ESSAYS  AND  STOEIES 

reaching  almost  to  the  ground,  houses  tremulous  with  age. 
Of  these  the  one  now  called  the  Clam  Broth  House,  low, 
squat,  broad-roofed,  is  the  oldest.  In  a  sense  the  fronts  are 
on  West  Street,  but  all  original  characteristics  have  there 
been  bedizenedly  lost,  and  the  ancient  aspect  is  on  Wee- 
hawken  Street. 

These  were  fishermen's  houses  in  ancient  days,  waterside 
houses;  for  West  Street  is  filled-in  ground,  and  the  broad 
expanse  of  shipping  space  out  beyond  the  street  is  made 
land.  When  these  houses  were  built,  the  North  River  reached 
their  doors,  and,  so  tradition  has  it,  fishermen  actually  rowed 
their  boats  and  drew  their  shad-seines  beneath  this  Clam 
Broth  House. 

Of  a  far  different  order  of  interest  is  a  demure  little 
church,  neat  and  trim,  on  Hudson  treet.  It  is  built  of  brick, 
bright  red,  with  long  red  wings  stretching  oddly  away  from 
the  rear,  with  a  low,  squat  tower  of  red,  and  in  the  midst 
of  gray  old  houses  that  hover  around  in  fading  respectability. 
It  is  St.  Luke's,  is  a  century  old,  and  with  it  is  conected 
the  most  charming  custom  of  New  York. 

In  1792  a  certain  John  Leake  died,  leaving  a  sum  to  Trinity 
Church  for  the  giving  forever,  to  "such  poor  as  shall  appear 
most  deserving,"  as  many  "six-penny  wheaten  loaves"  as  the 
income  would  buy,  and  this  sweet  and  simple  dole  has  ever 
since  been  regularly  administered,  and  it  will  go  on  through 
the  centuries,  like  the  ancient  English  charity  at  Winchester, 
where  for  eight  hundred  years  bread  and  ale  have  been 
given. 

But  there  is  one  strictly  New  York  feature  about  this 
already  old  Leake  dole  that  differentiates  it  from  the  dole 
of  Winchester,  for  it  is  still  at  the  original  wicket  that  the 
Winchester  dole  is  given.  There  the  custom  was  instituted, 
and  there  it  has  continued  through  all  these  centuries.  But 
in  New  York  the  dole  began  at  Trinity,  but  after  something 
more  than  half  a  century,  as  population  left  the  neighborhood 
of  Trinity,  the  dole  was  transferred  to  St.  John's,  on  Varick 
Street,  once  known  as  "St.  Johns  in  the  Fields,"  and  now, 
after  more  than  another  half-century,  there  has  come  still 


VANISHING  NEW  YORK  187 

another  removal,  and  the  dole  is  given  at  quaint  old  St. 
Luke's.  Thus  it  has  already  had  three  homes,  and  one 
wonders  how  many  it  will  have  as  the  decades  and  the  cen- 
turies move  on.  One  pictures  it  peripatetically  proceeding 
hither  and  thither  as  further  changes  come  upon  the  city, 
the  dole  for  the  poor  that  never  vanish. 

A  short  distance  south  from  St.  Luke's,  on  the  opposite 
side  of  Hudson  Street,  is  an  open  space  that  is  a  public  play- 
ground and  a  public  garden.  It  was  a  graveyard,  but  a  few 
years  ago  the  city  decreed  that  it  should  vanish,  with  the 
exception  of  a  monument  put  up  to  commemorate  the  de- 
votion of  firemen  who  gave  their  lives  for  duty  in  a  fire  of 
the  long  ago.  It  was  not  the  graveyard  of  St.  Luke's,  al- 
though near,  but  of  farther  away  St.  John's;  and  it  is  pleas- 
ant to  remember  that  it  was  in  walking  to  and  fro  among 
the  now  vanished  graves  and  tombs  that  Edgar  Allan  Poe  * 
composed  his  "Eaven." 

Cheerful  in  its  atmosphere — but  perhaps  this  is  largely 
from  its  name — is  short  little  Gay  Street,  leading  from 
Waverley  Place,  just  around  the  corner  from  Sixth  Avenue. 
Immediately  beyond  this  point — for  much  of  the  unexpected 
still  remains  in  good  old  Greenwich  Village — Waverley  be- 
comes, by  branching,  a  street  with  four  sidewalks ;  for  both 
branches  hold  the  name  of  Waverley.  It  is  hard  for  people 
of  to-day  to  understand  the  power  of  literature  in  the  early 
half  of  the  last  century,  when  Washington  Irving 3  was 
among  the  most  prominent  citizens,  and  James  Fenimore 
Cooper4  was  publicly  honored,  and  admirers  of  the  Waver- 
ley Novels  made  successful  demand  on  the  aldermen  to 
change  the  name  of  Sixth  Street,  where  it  left  Broadway, 
to  Waverley  Place,  and  to  continue  it  beyond  Sixth  Avenue, 
discarding  another  name  on  the  way,  and  at  this  forking- 

*  Edgar  Allan  Poe  (1809-1849).  Perhaps  the  most  widely  known 
American  poet  and  short  story  writer.  The  Eaven  is  the  best-known 
poem  by  any  American  poet.  Poe  wrote  the  poem  while  he  was  living 
in  New  York  City. 

8  Washington  Irving  (1783-1859).  The  genial  American  essayist,, 
biographer  and  historian.    He  spent  much  of  his  time  in  New  York  City. 

4 James  Fenimore  Cooper  (1789-1851).  The  first  great  American 
novelist,  best  known  for  his  famous  ' '  Leatherstocking  Tales. ' ' 


188  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

point  to  do  away  with  both  Catharine  and  Elizabeth  streets 
in  order  to  give  Waverley  its  four  sidewalks.  Could  this  be 
done  in  these  later  days  with  the  names,  say  of  Howells  5 
or  of  Ilopkinson  Smith ! 6  Does  any  one  ever  propose  to 
have  an  "0"  put  before  Henry  Street! 7 

At  the  forking-point  is  a  triangular  building,  archaic  in 
aspect,  and  very  quiet.  It  is  a  dispensary,  and  an  ancient 
jest  of  the  neighborhood  is,  when  some  stranger  asks  if  it  has 
patients,  to  reply,  "It  doesn't  need   'em;  it  's  got  money." 

Gay  Street  is  miniature;  its  length  isn't  long  and  its 
width  is  n  't  wide.  It  is  a  street  full  of  the  very  spirit  of 
old  Greenwich,  or,  rather,  of  the  old  Ninth  Ward;  for  thus 
the  old  inhabitants  love  to  designate  the  neighborhood,  some 
through  not  knowing  that  it  was  originally  Greenwich  Vil- 
lage, and  a  greater  number  because  they  are  not  interested 
in  the  modern  development,  poetic,  artistic,  theatric,  empiric, 
romantic,  sociologic,  but  are  proud  of  the  honored  record 
of  the  district  as  the  most  American  ward  of  New  York 
City. 

In  an  apartment  overlooking  a  Gay  Street  corner  there 
died  last  year  a  man  who  had  rented  there  for  thirty-four 
years.  There  loomed  oractical  difficulties  for  the  final  exit, 
the  solution  involving  window  and  fire-escape.  But  the  land- 
lord, himself  born  there,  said,  "No;  he  has  always  gone  in 
and  out  like  a  gentleman,  and  he  shall  still  go  out,  for  the 
last  time,  as  a  gentleman,"  thereupon  he  called  in  carpenter 
and  mason  to  cut  the  wall. 

Then  some  old  resident  will  tell  you,  pointing  out  house 
by  house  and  name  by  name,  where  business  men,  small  manu- 
facturers, politicians,  and  office-holders  dwelt.  And,  fur- 
ther reminiscent,  he  will  tell  of  how,  when  a  boy,  at  dawn 
on  each  Fourth  of  July,  he  used  to  get  out  his  toy  cannon  and 

"William  Dean  Howells  (1837-1920).  A  celebrated  modern  novelist, 
noted  for  his  realistic  pictures  of  life. 

6F.  Hopkinson  Smith  (1838-1915).  An  American  civil  engineer,  artist 
and  short  story  writer.  Colonel  Carter  of  Cartersville  is  one  of  his  best- 
known  books. 

'  O.  Henry  (William  Sidney  Porter)  (1867-1910).  A  popular  American 
short  story  writer,  noted  for  originality  of  style  and  treatment. 


© 

a 


t   ^ 


o 

0> 


c 

GO 

OS 


VANISHING  NEW  YORK  189 

fire  it  from  a  cellar  entrance  (pointing  to  the  entrance), 
and  how  one  Fourth  the  street  was  suddenly  one  shattering 
crash,  two  young  students  from  the  old  university  across 
Washington  Square  having  experimentally  tossed  to  the  pave- 
ment from  their  garret  window  a  stick  of  what  was  then  "a 
new  explosive,  dynamite. ' '    No  sane  and  safe  Fourths  then ! 

It  is  still  remembered  that  some  little  houses  at  the  far- 
ther end  of  Gay  Street,  on  Christopher,  were  occupied  by 
a  little  colony  of  hand-loom  weavers  from  Scotland,  who 
there  looked  out  from  these  ' '  windows  in  Thrums. ' ' 8 

Around  two  corners  from  this  spot  is  a  curiously  pic- 
turesque little  bit  caused  by  the  street  changes  of  a  century 
ago.  It  is  Patchin  Place,  opening  from  Tenth  Street  op- 
posite Jefferson  Market.  The  place  is  a  cul-de-sac,  with  a 
double  row  of  little  three-story  houses,  each  looking  just  like 
the  other,  of  yellow-painted  brick.  Each  house  has  a  little 
area  space,  each  front  door  is  up  two  steps  from  its  nar- 
row sidewalk.  Each  door  is  of  a  futuristic  green.  Each  has 
its  ailantus-tree,  making  the  little  nooked  place  a  delightful 
bower. 

Immediately  around  the  corner  is  the  still  more  curious 
Milligan  Place,  a  spot  more  like  a  bit  of  old  London  than 
any  other  in  New  York.  It  is  a  little  nestled  space,  entered 
by  a  barely  gate-wide  opening  from  the  busy  Sixth  Avenue 
sidewalk.  Inside  it  expands  a  trifle,  just  sufficiently  to 
permit  the  existence  of  four  little  houses,  built  close  against 
one  another.  So  narrowly  does  an  edge  of  brick  building 
come  down  beside  the  entrance  that  it  is  literally  only  the 
width  of  the  end  of  the  bricks. 

In  an  instant,  going  through  the  entrance  that  you  might 
pass  a  thousand  times  without  noticing,  you  are  miles  away, 
you  are  decades  away,  in  a  fragment  of  an  old  lost  lane. 

Near  by,  where  Sixth  Avenue  begins,  there  is  still  projec- 
tive from  an  old-time  building  the  sign  of  the  Golden  Swan, 
a  lone  survival  of  long  ago.     And  this  is  remindful  of  the 

8 ' '  Windows  in  Thrums ' '.  The  title  of  a  novel  by  James  Matthew 
Barrie  (1860 )  is  A  Window  in  Thrums,  Thrums  being  an  imag- 
inary village  in  Scotland,  inhabited  principally  by  humble  but  devout 
weavers. 


190  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

cigar-store  Indians.  Only  yesterday  they  were  legion,  now 
a  vanished  race.  And  the  sidewalk  clocks  that  added  such 
interest  to  the  streets,  they,  too,  have  gone,  banished  by 
city  ordinance. 

The  conjunction  of  Seventh  Avenue  and  Greenwich  Avenue 
and  Eleventh  Street  makes  a  triangle,  at  the  sharp  point  of 
which  is  a  small,  low,  and  ancient  building,  fittingly  given 
over  to  that  ancient  and  almost  vanished  trade,  horseshoe- 
ing. A  little  brick  building  with  outside  wooden  stair  stands 
against  and  above  it  as  the  triangle  widens,  and  then  comes 
an  ancient  building  a  little  taller  still.  And  this  odd  con- 
glomerate building  was  all,  so  you  will  be  told,  built  in  the 
good  old  days  for  animal  houses  for  one  of  the  earliest 
menageries!  Next  came  a  period  of  stage-coaches,  with 
horses  housed  here.  And,  as  often  in  New  York,  a  great 
shabbiness  accompanies  the  old.  Within  the  triangle,  inside 
of  a  tall  wooden  fence,  are  several  ancient  ailantus  trees,  re- 
mindful that  long  ago  New  York  knew  this  locality  as — name 
full  of  pleasant  implications — "Ailanthus  Gardens."  And 
every  spring  Ailanthus  Gardens,  oblivious  to  forgetfulness 
and  shabbiness,  still  bourgeons  green  and  gay. 

An  old  man,  a  ghost-of-the-past  old  man,  approached,  and, 
seeing  that  we  were  interested,  said  abruptly,  unexpectedly, 
"That  's  Bank  Street  over  there,  where  the  banks  and  the 
bankers  came,"  thus  taking  the  mind  far  back  to  the  time  of 
a  yellow-fever  flight  from  what  was  then  the  distant  city 
to  what  was  in  reality  Greenwich. 

Only  a  block  from  here,  on  Seventh  Avenue,  is  a  highly 
picturesque  survival,  a  long  block  of  three-story  dwellings 
all  so  uniformly  balconied,  from  first  floor  to  roof-line, 
across  the  entire  fronts,  that  you  see  nothing  but  balconies, 
with  their  three  stories  fronted  with  eyelet-pattern 
balustrades.  In  front  of  all  the  houses  is  an  open  grassy 
space,  and  up  the  face  of  the  balconies  run  old  wistaria- 
vines.  Each  house,  through  the  crisscrossing  of  upright  and 
lateral  lines,  is  fronted  with  nine  open  square  spaces,  like 
Brobdingnagian  pigeon-holes. 


VANISHING  NEW  YORK  191 

On  West  Eleventh  Street  is  a  row  almost  identical  in 
appearance.  If  you  follow  Eleventh  Street  eastward,  and 
find  that  it  does  not  cut  across  Broadway,  you  will  remem- 
ber that  this  comes  from  the  efforts  of  Brevoort,  an  early 
landowner,  to  save  a  grand  old  tree  that  stood  there.  And 
then  Grace  Church  gained  possession,  and  the  street  re- 
mained uncut. 

A  most  striking  vanishing  hereabouts  has  been  of  the 
hotels.  What  an  interesting  group  they  were  in  this  part 
of  Broadway !  Even  the  old  Astor,  far  down  town,  has  gone, 
only  a  wrecked  and  empty  remnant  remaining. 

But  a  neighbor  of  the  Astor  House  is  an  old-time  build- 
ing whose  loss,  frequently  threatened,  every  one  who  loves 
noble  and  beautiful  architecture  would  deplore — the  more 
than  century-old  city  hall,  which  still  dominates  its  surround- 
ings, as  it  has  always  dominated,  even  though  now  the  build- 
ings round  about  are  of  towering  height. 

Time-mellowed,  its  history  has  also  mellowed,  with  myriad 
associations  and  happenings  and  tales.  That  a  man  who  was 
to  become  Mayor  of  New  York  (it  was  Fernando  Wood)  made 
his  first  entry  into  the  city  as  the  hind  leg  of  an  elephant 
of  a  traveling  show,  and  in  that  capacity  passed  for  the  first 
time  the  city  hall,  is  a  story  that  out-Whittingtons  Whitting- 
ton.9 

And  noblest  and  finest  of  all  the  associations  with  the 
city  hall  is  one  which  has  to  do  with  a  time  before  the  city 
hall  arose ;  for  here,  on  the  very  spot  where  it  stands,  George 
Washington  paraded  his  little  army  on  a  July  day  in  1776, 
and  with  grave  solemnity,  while  they  listened  in  a  solemnity 
as  grave,  a  document  was  read  to  them  that  had  just  been 
received  from  Philadelphia  and  which  was  forever  to  be 
known  as  the  Declaration  of  Independence. 

It  used  to  be,  three  quarters  of  a  century  ago,  that  people 
could  go  northward  from  the  city  hall  on  the  New  York  and 
Harlem  Railway,  which  built  its  tracks  far  down  in  this  di- 

9  Sir  Richard  Whittington  (1358-1423).  Three  times  Lord  Mayor  of 
London;  the  hero  of  the  legend  of  Whittington  and  His  Cat. 


192  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STOEIES 

rection.  It  used  the  Park  Avenue  tunnel,  which  had  been 
built  in  1837  for  the  first  horse-car  line  in  the  world.  After 
the  railway  made  Forty-second  Street  its  terminal,  horse- 
cars  again  went  soberly  through  the  tunnel.  What  a  pleasure 
to  remember  the  tinkle,  tinkle  as  they  came  jerkily  jogging 
through,  from  somewhere  up  Harlemward,  and,  with  quirky 
variety  as  to  course,  to  an  end  somewhere  near  University 
Place!     A  most  oddly  usable  line. 

A  few  minutes'  walk  from  University  Place  is  one  of  the 
most  facinating  spots  in  New  York — "St.  Mark's  in  the 
Bouwerie,"  although  it  is  actually  on  Second  Avenue  and 
Stuyvesant  Street. 

The  church  was  built  in  1799,  but  it  stands  on  property 
that  the  mighty  Petrus  Stuyvesant 10  owned,  and  on  the  site 
of  a  chapel  that  he  built,  and  his  tomb  is  beneath  the  pave- 
ment of  the  church,  and  the  tombstone  is  set  in  the  founda- 
tion-wall on  the  eastern  side.  There  is  an  excellent  bronze 
close  by,  fittingly  made  in  Holland,  of  this  whimsical,  irascible, 
kind-hearted,  clear-headed  captain-general  and  governor  who 
ruled  this  New  Amsterdam.  Nothing  else  in  the  city  so 
gives  the  smack  of  age,  the  relish  of  the  saltness  of  time, 
as  this  old  church  built  on  Stuyvesant 's  land  and  holding  his 
bones.  For  Stuyvesant  was  born  when  Elizabeth  reigned 
in  England  and  when  Henry  of  Navarre,  with  his  white 
plume,  was  King  of  France.  The  great  New-Yorker  was 
born  in  the  very  year  that  "Hamlet"  was  written.11 

He  loved  his  city,  and  lived  here  after  the  English  came 
and  conquered  him  and  seized  the  colony. 

This  highly  pictorial  old  church,  broad-fronted,  pleasant- 
porticoed,  stands  within  a  great  open  graveyard  space,  green 
with  grass  and  sweetly  shaded,  and  its  aloofness  and  beauty 
are  markedly  enhanced  by  its  being  set  high  above  the  level 
of  the  streets. 

"Petrus  Stuyvesant  (1592-1672).  The  last  of  the  Dutch  governors 
of  New  York.  In  1664  he  surrendered  New  York  to  the  English.  Hia 
farm  was  called  ' '  The  Bouwerij  ' '. 

u  Hamlet.  While  the  date  of  Hamlet  can  not  be  told  with  certainty 
it  is  reasonably  sure  that  Shakespeare  wrote  his  version  of  an  older  play 
about  1592. 


VANISHING  NEW  YOKK  193 

On  Lafayette  Street,  once  Lafayette  Place,  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  St.  Mark's,  still  stands  the  deserted  Astor  Library, 
just  bought  by  the  Y.  M.  H.  A.  as  a  home  for  immigrants, 
built  three  quarters  of  a  century  ago  for  permanence,  but 
now  empty  and  bare  and  grim,  shorn  of  its  Rialto-like  12  steps, 
with  closed  front,  as  if  harboring  secrets  behind  its  sadden- 
ing inaccessibility.  Once-while  stately  gate-posts  and  gate- 
way, now  ruinous,  beside  the  library  building,  marked  the 
driveway  entrance  of  a  long-vanished  Astor  home. 

All  is  dreary,  dismal,  desolate,  and  the  color  of  the 
Venetian-like  building  has  become  a  sad  combination  of 
chocolate  brown  and  dull  red. 

The  tens  of  thousands  of  books  from  here,  the  literature 
and  art  of  the  Lenox  collection,  and  the  fine  foundation  of 
Tilden  are  united  at  Fifth  Avenue  and  Forty-second  Street. 
From  what  differing  sources  did  these  three  mighty  founda- 
tions spring!  One  from  the  tireless  industry  of  a  great 
lawyer ; 13  one  from  a  far-flung  fur  trade  that  over  a  cen- 
tury ago  reached  through  trackless  wilderness  to  the  Pa- 
cific ; 14  one  from  a  fortune  wrung  by  exactions  from  Ameri- 
can soldiers  of  the  Revolution,  prisoners  of  war,  who  paid 
all  they  had  in  the  hope  of  alleviating  their  suffering — a 
fortune  inherited  by  a  man  who  studied  to  put  it  out  for  the 
benefit  of  mankind  in  broad  charity  and  helpfulness,  in 
hospitals  and  colleges,  and  in  his  library,  left  for  public 
use.15 

With  the  old  Astor  Library  so  stripped  and  deserted,  one 
wonders  if  a  similar  fate  awaits  the  stately  and  palatial 
building  to  which  it  has  gone.    Will  the  new  building  some 

"Rialto.  A  celebrated  bridge  in  Venice,  Italy.  It  has  a  series  of 
steps. 

13  Samuel  J.  Tilden  (1814-1886).  An  American  lawyer,  at  one  time 
Governor  of  New  York.  As  candidate  for  the  Presidency  he  won  250,000 
more  votes  than  Eutherford  B.  Hayes,  but  lost  the  election  in  the 
Electoral  College. 

"John  Jacob  Astor  (1763-1848).  A  German  immigrant  who,  through 
the  founding  of  a  great  fur  business,  established  the  Astor  fortune.  He 
bequeathed  $400,000  for  the  Astor  Library. 

"James  Lenox  (1800-1880).  An  American  philanthropist  who 
founded  the  great  Lenox  Library. 


194  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

day  vanish?  And  similarly  the  superb  and  mighty  struc- 
tures that  have  in  recent  years  come  in  connection  with 
the  city's  northern  sweep? 

A  curious  fate  has  attended  the  Lenox  Library  property. 
Given  to  the  city,  land  and  building  and  contents,  the  land 
and  building  were  sold  into  private  ownership  when  the 
consolidation  of  libraries  was  decided  upon.  The  granite 
stronghold,  built  to  endure  forever,  was  razed,  and  where 
it  had  stood  arose  the  most  beautiful  home  in  New  York, 
which,  gardened  in  boxwood,  its  owner  filled  with  priceless 
treasures.  And  now  he  is  dead,  and  again  the  land,  a  build- 
ing, and  costly  contents  are  willed  to  the  city. 

Across  from  the  old  Astor  Library  stood  Colonnade  Row, 
a  long  and  superb  line  of  pillar-fronted  grandeur;  but  only 
a  small  part  now  remains,  with  only  a  few  of  the  fluted  Cor- 
inthian pillars.  All  is  shabby  and  forlorn,  but  noble  even 
in  shabbiness.  And  the  remnant,  one  thinks,  must  shortly  fall 
a  victim  to  the  destructive  threat  that  hangs  over  everything 
in  our  city. 

Colonnade  Row  was  built  in  the  eighteen  twenties.  Wash- 
ington Irving  lived  there.  One  gathers  the  impression  that 
Irving,  named  after  Washington,  lived  in  as  many  houses  as 
those  in  which  Washington  slept.  In  the  row  occurred  the 
wedding  of  President  Tyler,16  an  event  not  characterized 
by  modest  shrinking  from  publicity,  for  after  the  ceremony 
the  President  and  his  bride  were  driven  down  Broadway 
in  an  open  carriage,  drawn  by  four  horses,  to  the  Battery, 
whence  a  boat  rowed  them  out  to  begin  their  married  life 
on — of  all  places ! — a  ship  of  war ! 

It  is  interesting  to  find  two  Virginia-born  Presidents  of 
the  United  States  coming  to  Lafayette  Street ;  for  here  dwelt 
Monroe,17  he  of  the  "Doctrine,"  during  the  latter  part  of 
his  life,  at  what  is  now  the  northwest  corner  of  Lafayette 
Street  and  Prince ;  and  he  died  there.  Long  since  the  house 
fell  into  sheer  dinginess  and  wreck,  and  a  few  months  ago 

"John  Tyler   (1790-1862).     Tenth  President  of  the  United  States. 

17  James  Monroe  (1758-1831).  Fifth  President  of  the  United  States; 
originator  of  the  ' '  Monroe  Doctrine ' ',  a  policy  designed  to  prevent 
foreign  interference  in  affairs  in  North  or  South  America. 


VANISHING  NEW  YORK  195 

was  sold  to  be  demolished ;  but  New  York  may  feel  pride  in 
her  connection  with  the  American  who,  following  Washing- 
ton's example,  declared  against  "entangling  ourselves  in  the 
broils  of  Europe,  or  suffering  the  powers  of  the  old  world 
to  interfere  with  the  affairs  of  the  new." 

Near  this  house  Monroe  was  buried,  in  the  Marble  Cemetery 
on  Second  Street,  beyond  Second  Avenue,  a  spot  with  high 
open  iron  fence  in  front  and  high  brick  wall  behind,  with 
an  atmosphere  of  sedateness  and  repose,  although  a  tenement 
district  has  come  round  about.  Monroe's  body  lay  here  for 
a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  then  Virginia  belatedly  carried 
it  to  Virginian  soil. 

Close  by,  entered  through  a  narrow  tunnel-like  entrance 
at  411/2  Second  Avenue,  is  another  Marble  Cemetery  (the 
Monroe  burying-place  is  the  New  York  City  Marble  Ceme- 
tery, and  this  other  is  the  New  York  Marble  Cemetery), 
and  this  second  one  is  quite  hidden  away  in  inconspicuous- 
ness,  as  befits  a  place  which,  according  to  a  now  barely  de- 
cipherable inscription,  was  established  as  "a  place  of  inter- 
ment for  gentlemen,"  surely  the  last  word  in  exclusiveness ! 

Across  the  street  from  the  entrance  to  this  cemetery  for 
gentlemen  is  a  church  for  the  common  people,  one  of  the 
pleasant  surprises  of  a  kind  which  one  frequently  comes 
upon  in  New  York — a  building  really  distinguished  in  ap- 
pearance, yet  not  noticed  or  known.  A  broad  flight  of  steps 
stretches  across  the  broad  church  front.  There  are  tall  pil- 
lar and  pilasters,  excellent  iron  fencing  and  gateway.  The 
interior  is  all  of  the  color  of  pale  ivory,  with  much  of  classic 
detail  and  with  a  "Walls-of-Troy"  pattern  along  the  gal- 
lery. There  were  a  score  of  such  classic  churches  in  New 
York  early  in  the  last  century. 

Always  in  finding  the  unexpected  there  is  charm,  as  when, 
the  other  day,  we  came  by  the  merest  chance  upon  "Extra 
Place"!  "What  a  name!  It  is  a  little  court  nooked  out  of 
First  Street, — how  many  New  Yorkers  know  that  there  is 
a  First  Street  in  fact  and  not  merely  in  theory? — between 
Second  and  Third  avenues.  Extra  Place  is  a  stone's  throw 
in  length,  a  forgotten  bit  of  forlornness,  but  at  its  end,  beyond 


196  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

sheds  and  tall  board  fencing,  are  suggestions  of  pleasant 
homes  of  a  distant  past,  great  fireplace  chimneys  and  queer 
windows,  and  an  old  shade  tree,  and  under  the  tree  a  brick- 
paved  walk,  formal  in  its  rectangle,  where  happy  people 
walked  in  the  long  ago,  and  where  once  a  garden  smiled, 
but  where  now  no  kind  of  flower  grows  wild. 

The  tree  of  the  New  York  tenements  is  the  ailantus,  palm- 
like in  its  youth,  brought  originally  from  China  for  the  gar- 
dens of  the  rich.  It  grows  in  discouraging  surroundings,  is 
defiant  of  smoke,  does  not  even  ask  to  be  planted ;  for,  Topsy- 
like,  it  "jest  grows."  Cut  it  down,  and  it  comes  up  again. 
It  is  said  to  have  no  insect  enemies.  An  odd  point  in  its 
appearance  is  that  every  branch  points  up. 

The  former  extraordinary  picturesqueness  of  the  water- 
front has  gone ;  but  still  there  is  much  there  that  is  strange, 
and  a  general  odor  of  oakum  and  tar  remains.  And,  lead- 
ing back  from  the  East-Side  waterfront,  narrow,  ancient 
lanes  have  been  preserved,  and  by  these  one  may  enter  the 
old-time  warehouse  portion  of  the  city,  where  still  the 
permeative  smell  of  drugs  or  leather  or  spice  differentiates 
district  from  district. 

Vanished  is  many  a  delightful  old  name.  Pie  Woman's 
Lane  became  Nassau  Street.  Oyster  Pasty  Alley  became 
Exchange  Alley.  Clearly,  early  New  Yorkers  were  a  gusta- 
tory folk. 

A  notable  vanishing  has  within  a  few  months  come  to  Wall 
Street  itself — the  vanishing  of  the  last  outward  and  visible 
sign  of  the  feud  of  Alexander  Hamilton  18  and  Aaron  Burr.18 
Hamilton  was  the  leading  spirit  in  establishing  one  bank 
in  the  city,  and  Burr,  through  a  clause  in  a  water-company 
charter,  established  another,  and  through  all  these  decades 
the  banks  have  been  rivals.  Now  they  have  united  their 
financial  fortunes  and  become  one  bank. 

An  interesting  rector  of  Trinity  Church,  which  looks  in 
such  extraordinary  fashion  into  the  narrow  gorge  of  Wall 

"Alexander  Hamilton  (1757-1804).  A  great  American  statesman  and 
financier.  He  was  killed  in  a  duel  with  Aaron  Burr  (1756-1836),  an 
American  politician. 


VANISHING  NEW  YORK  197 

Street,  became  over  a  century  ago  Bishop  of  New  York, 
Benjamin  Moore,  and  he  is  chiefly  interesting,  after  all, 
through  his  early  connection  with  the  then  distant  region 
still  known  as  Chelsea,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Twenty-third 
Street  and  the  North  River,  where  he  acquired  great  land- 
holdings  that  had  been  owned  by  the  English  naval  cap- 
tain who  had  made  his  home  here  and  given  the  locality  its 
name. 

Chelsea  still  holds  is  own  as  an  interesting  neighborhood, 
mainly  because  of  its  possession  of  the  General  Theological 
Seminary,  which  has  attracted  and  held  desirable  people 
and  given  an  aknosphere  of  quiet  seclusion. 

The  seminary  buildings  occupy  the  entire  block  between 
Ninth  and  Tenth  avenues  and  Twentieth  and  Twenty-first 
streets.  They  are  largely  of  English  style,  and  there  are 
long  stretches  of  ten-foot  garden  wall.  Now  and  then  a 
mortar-boarded  student  strides  hurriedly  across  an  open 
space,  and  now  and  then  a  professor  paces  portentously. 
The  buildings  are  mostly  of  brick,  but  the  oldest  is  an  odd- 
looking  structure  of  silver-gray  stone.  The  varied  struc- 
tures unite  in  effective  conjunction.  It  may  be  mentioned 
that,  owing  to  a  Vanderbilt  who  looked  about  for  something 
which  in  his  opinion  would  set  the  seminary  in  the  front 
rank,  its  library  possesses  more  ancient  Latin  Bibles,  so  it 
is  believed,  than  does  even  the  Bodleian.19 

The  chapel  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  square,  and  above 
it  rises  a  square  Magdalen-like  tower,20  softened  by  ivy;  and, 
following  a  beautiful  old  custom  as  it  has  been  followed 
since  the  tower  was  built,  capped  and  gowned  students 
gather  at  sunrise  on  Easter  morning  on  the  top  of  this  tall 
tower  and  sing  ancient  chorals  to  the  music  of  trombone 
and  horn. 

Chelsea  ought  to  be  the  most  home-like  region  in  New 
York  on  account  of  its  connection  with   Christmas;   for  a 

M  The  Bodleian  Library.  The  great  library  of  Oxford  University, 
England,  named  after  Sir  Thomas  Bodley,  one  of  its  founders. 

*°  Magdalen  College.  One  of  the  colleges  of  Oxford  University,, 
England.    It  is  noted  for  an  especially  beautiful  tower. 


198  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

son  of  Bishop  Moore,  Clement  C.  Moore,21  who  gave  this  land 
to  the  seminary,  and  made  his  own  home  in  Chelsea,  wrote 
the  childhood  classic,  "  'T  was  the  night  before  Christmas." 

In  this  old-time  neighborhood  stand  not  only  houses,  but 
long-established  little  shops.  One  for  drugs,  for  example, 
is  marked  as  dating  back  to  1839.  But,  after  all,  that  is  not 
so  old  as  a  great  Fifth  Avenue  shop  which  was  established 
in  1826.  However,  there  is  this  difference :  the  Chelsea  shops 
are  likely  to  be  on  the  very  spots  where  they  were  first 
opened,  whereas  the  great  shop  of  Fifth  Avenue  has  reached 
its  location  by  move  after  move,  from  its  beginning  on  Grand 
Street,  when  that  was  the  fashionable  shopping  street  of 
the  city. 

In  Chelsea  are  still  to  be  found  the  old  pineapple-topped 
newel-posts  of  wrought  iron,  like  openwork  urns;  there  are 
old  houses  hidden  erratically  behind  those  on  the  street-front. 
One  in  particular  remains  in  mind,  a  large  old-fashioned 
dwelling,  now  reached  only  by  a  narrow  and  built-over  pas- 
sage, a  house  that  looks  like  a  haunted  house,  from  its  deso- 
late disrepair,  its  lost  loneliness  of  location. 

Chelsea  is  a  region  of  yellow  cats  and  green  shutters, 
shabby  green  on  the  uncared  for  and  fresh  green  for  the 
well  kept.  Old  New  York  used  typically  to  temper  the  dog- 
days  behind  green  slat  shutters,  or  under  shop  awnings 
stretched  to  the  curb,  and  with  brick  sidewalks,  sprinkled 
in  the  early  afternoon  from  a  sprinkling-can  in  the  'prentice 
hand. 

One  of  the  admirable  old  houses  of  Chelsea  is  that  where 
dwelt  that  unquiet  spirit,  Edwin  Forrest,22  the  actor.  It 
is  at  436  West  Twenty-second  Street,  a  substantial-looking, 
square-fronted  house,  with  a  door  of  a  great  single  panel. 
And  the  interior  is  notable  for  the  beautiful  spiral  stair 
that  figured  in  court  in  his  marital  troubles. 

There  are  in   Chelsea  two  more  than  usually  delightful 

21  Clement  C.  Moore  (1779-1863).  A  wealthy  American  scholar  and 
teacher  who  wrote  the  poem,   'Twas  the  Night  Before  Christmas. 

"Edwin  Forrest  (1806-1872).  A  great  American  actor,  noted  for  his 
rendition  of  Shakespeare. 


VANISHING  NEW  YOKK  199 

residential  survivals,  with  the  positively  delightful  old  namea 
of  Chelsea  Cottages  and  London  Terrace.  The  cottages  are 
on  Twenty-fourth  Street,  and  the  Terrace  is  on  Twenty-third, 
and  each  is  between  Ninth  and  Tenth  avenues,  and  both  were 
built  three  quarters  of  a  century  ago. 

The  cottages  are  alternating  three-story  and  two-story 
houses,  built  tightly  shoulder  to  shoulder,  astonishingly  nar- 
row-fronted, each  with  a  grassy  space  in  front.  Taken  to. 
gether,  they  make  one  of  the  last  stands  on  Manhattan  of 
simple  and  modest  and  concerted  picturesque  living. 

The  Terrace  is  a  highly  distinguished  row  of  high-pilastered 
houses,  set  behind  grassy,  deep  dooryards.  There  are  pre- 
cisely eighty-eight  three-and-a-half-story  pilasters  on  the  fron% 
of  this  stately  row.  The  houses  have  a  general  composite 
effect  of  yellowish  gray.  They  are  built  on  the  London  plan 
of  the  drawing-room  on  the  second  floor,  so  that  those  that 
live  there  "go  down  to  dinner."  The  drawing-rooms  are  of 
pleasant  three-windowed  spaciousness,  extending  across  each 
house-front. 

The  terrace  is  notable  in  high-stooped  New  York  in  having 
the  entrance-doors  on  virtually  the  sidewalk  level.  That  th« 
familiar  and  almost  omnipresent  high-stooped  houses  of  the 
nineteenth  century  ought  all  to  have  been  constructed  with, 
out  the  long  flight  of  outside  stone  steps  characteristic  of 
the  city  is  shown  by  a  most  interesting  development  on 
East  Nineteenth  Street,  between  Third  Avenue  and  Irving 
Place.  There  the  houses  have  been  excellently  and  artistically 
remodeled,  with  highly  successful  and  highly  satisfactory  re- 
sults. "With  comparatively  slight  cost,  there  has  been  altera- 
tion of  commonplaceness  into  beauty. 

The  high  front  steps  have  been  removed,  and  the  front 
doors  put  down  to  where  they  ought  to  be.  Most  of  the 
house-fronts  have  been  given  a  stucco  coat,  showing  what 
could  be  done  with  myriad  commonplace  houses  of  the  city. 

The  houses  are  colorfully  painted  tawny  red  or  cream  or 
gray  or  pale  pink  or  an  excellent  shade  of  brown.  You  think 
of  it  as  the  happiest-looking  street  in  New  York.  Solid  shut- 
ters add  their  effect,  some  the  srreen  of  bronze  patina.    There 


200  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STOKIES 

are  corbeled  gables.  Some  of  the  roofs  are  red-tiled.  Two 
little  two-story  stables  have  been  transformed  by  little  Gothic 
doors.  There  are  vines.  There  are  box-bushes.  There  are 
flowers  in  terra-cotta  boxes  on  low  area  walls.  Here  and 
there  is  a  delightful  little  iron  balcony,  here  and  there  a 
gargoyle.  On  one  roof  two  or  three  storks  are  gravely 
standing!  There  are  charming  area-ways,  and  plane-trees 
have  been  planted  for  the  entire  block.  And  here  the  van- 
ishing is  of  the  undesirable. 

On  Stuyvesant  Square,  near  by,  are  the  Quaker  buildings, 
standing  in  an  atmosphere  of  peace  which  they  themselves 
have  largely  made — buildings  of  red  brick  with  white  trim- 
mings, and  with  a  fine  air  of  gentleness  and  repose ;  a  little 
group  that,  so  one  hopes,  is  very  far  indeed  from  the  vanish- 
ing point. 

And  there  is  fine  old  Gramercy  Park,  whose  dignified 
homes  in  the  past  were  owned  by  men  of  the  greatest  promi- 
nence. Many  of  the  great  homes  still  remain,  and  the  cen- 
tral space,  tall,  iron-fenced,  is  still  exclusively  locked  from 
all  but  the  privileged,  the  dwellers  in  the  houses  on  the  park. 
And  there,  amid  the  grass  and  the  trees,  sedate  little  chil- 
dren, with  little  white  or  black  dogs,  play  sedately  for 
hours. 

We  went  for  luncheon,  with  two  recent  woman's  college 
graduates,  all  familiar  with  New  York,  into  the  club  house 
that  was  the  home  of  Samuel  J.  Tilden.  Our  companions 
were  unusually  excellent  examples  of  the  best  that  the  col- 
leges produce ;  they  were  of  American  ancestry.  But  any 
New-Yorker  will  feel  that  much  of  the  spirit  of  the  city  has 
vanished,  that  much  of  the  honored  and  intimate  tradition 
has  gone,  when  we  say  that,  it  being  mentioned  that  this  had 
been  the  Tilden  home,  it  developed  that  neither  of  them  had 
ever  heard  of  Samuel  J.  Tilden. 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  What  is  the  authors'  attitude  toward  the  past? 

2.  What  does  the  essay  say  concerning  change? 

3.  In  what  spirit  does  the  essay  mention  old  buildings? 


VANISHING  NEW  YORK  201 

4.  What  does  the  essay  prophesy  for  the  future? 

5.  Tell  the  origin  of  some  of  the  street  names  in  New  York  City. 

6.  What  does  the  essay  say  concerning  the  influence  of  people  who 

are  now  dead? 

7.  Point  out  examples  of  pleasant  suggestion. 

8.  Show  where  the  writers  express  originality  of  thought. 

9.  What  is  the  plan  of  the  essay? 

10.  What  advantage  does  the  essay  gain  by  making  so  frequent 

reference  to  names  of  people? 

11.  How  do  the  writers  gain  coherence? 

12.  Point  out  pleasing  allusions. 

13.  What  spirit  does  the  essay  arouse? 

14.  What  do  the  writers  think  concerning  the  present? 


SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 

1.  Things  That  Have  Vanished  11.  A  Trip  About  Town 

2.  My  Own  Town  Years  Ago  12.  Some  Curious  Buildings 

3.  Old  Buildings  13.  The  Highway 

4.  The  People  of  a  Former  Day  14.  The  Founding  of  My  Town 

5.  Legacies  15.  Early  Settlers 

6.  Street  Names  16.  My  Ancestors 

7.  The  Story  of  a  Street  17.  Family  Relics 

8.  The  Story  of  an  Old  House  18.  A  Walk  in  the  Country 

9.  The  Farm  19.  The  Making  of  a  City 
10.  Eternal  Change  20.  Main  Street 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

Your  object  is  not  to  tell  what  you  do  on  any  walk  that  you 
choose  to  take,  nor  is  it  to  tell  what  you  see.  You  are  not  to  try  to 
inform  people  concerning  facts.  You  are  to  give  them  pleasing 
impressions  that  come  to  you  as  you  meditate  on  something  that 
has  changed. 

In  order  to  do  this  you  must,  first  of  all,  have  a  real  experience, 
both  in  visiting  a  place  and  in  feeling  emotion.  Then  you  must 
make  a  plan  for  your  writing,  so  that  you  will  take  your  reader 
just  as  easily  and  just  as  naturally  as  possible  over  the  ground 
that  you  wish  him  to  visit  in  imagination. 

Make  many  allusions  to  people,  to  books,  to  events,  and  to  any- 


202  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

thing  else  that  will  bring  back  the  past  vividly.  Make  that  past 
appear  in  all  its  charm.  You  can  do  this  best  if  your  emotion  is 
real,  and  if  you  pay  considerable  attention  to  your  style  of  writing. 
Use  many  adjectives  and  adjective  expressions.  Above  all,  try  to 
find  words  that  will  be  highly  suggestive. 


THE  SONGS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR* 

By  BRANDER  MATTHEWS 

(1852 — ).  One  of  the  most  influential  American  critics  and 
essayists,  Professor  of  Dramatic  Literature  in  Columbia  Uni- 
versity. He  was  one  of  the  founders  of  The  Authors'  Club,  and 
The  Players,  and  a  leader  in  organizing  the  American  Copy- 
right League.  He  is  a  member  of  the  National  Institute  of 
Arts  and  Letters.  He  is  the  author  of  works  that  illustrate 
many  types  of  literature,  including  novels,  short  stories,  essays, 
poems  and  plays.  Among  his  books  are:  A  Story  of  the  Sea, 
and  Other  Stories ;  Pen  and  Ink ;  Americanisms  and  Briticisms ; 
The  Story  of  a  Story;  Vignettes  of  Manhattan;  His  Father's 
Son;  Aspects  of  Fiction;  Essays  in  English;  The  American 
of   the   Future. 

When  companionable  people  meet  in  pleasant  converse,  whether  before 
the  open  fire  at  home,  or  in  chance  gatherings  at  any  place,  they  tell 
one  another  about  the  interesting  experiences  that  they  have  had  or  the 
discoveries  that  they  have  made.  If  you  could  place  on  paper  what 
any  one  of  them  says,  except  in  narration,  and  if  you  could,  at  the 
same  time,  show  the  feeling  and  the  spirit  of  the  speaker, — if  you 
could  in  some  way  transfer  the  personality  of  the  speaker  to  the 
paper, — you   would,   in   all  probability,   produce   an   essay. 

The  author  of  The  Songs  of  the  Civil  War  has  learned  some  inter- 
esting facts  concerning  our  national  songs.  He  communicates  those 
facts  as  he  would  to  a  company  of  friends,  indicating  throughout  his 
remarks  his  own  interests  and  beliefs.  His  words  are  the  pleasant 
words  of  friendship, — not  the  formal  giving  of  information  that  char- 
acterizes most  encyclopedia  articles.  That  part  of  his  essay  which  ia 
given  here  is  sufficient  to  indicate  the  charm  of  his  presentation. 

A  national,  hymn  is  one  of  the  things  which  cannot  be 

made  to  order.     No  man  has  ever  yet  sat  him  down  and 

taken  up  his  pen  and  said,  "I  will  write  a  national  hymn," 

and  composed  either  words  or  music  which  a  nation  was 

willing  to  take  for  its  own.     The  making  of  the   song  of 

the  people  is  a  happy  accident,  not  to  be  accomplished  by 

taking  thought.     It  must  be  the  result  of  fiery  feeling  long 

*  From  "Pen  and  Ink"  by  Brander  Matthews.  Copyright,  1888,  by 
Longmans.     Printed  here  by  special  permission  of  Professor  Matthews. 

203 


S04  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

confined,  and  suddenly  finding  vent  in  burning  words  or 
moving  strains.  Sometimes  the  heat  and  the  pressure  of 
emotion  have  been  fierce  enough  and  intense  enough  to  call 
forth  at  once  both  words  and  music,  and  to  weld  them  together 
indissolubly  once  and  for  all.  Almost  always  the  maker  of 
the  song  does  not  suspect  the  abiding  value  of  his  work; 
he  has  wrought  unconsciously,  moved  by  a  power  within; 
he  has  written  for  immediate  relief  to  himself,  and  with  no 
thought  of  fame  or  the  future;  he  has  builded  better  than 
he  knew.  The  great  national  lyric  is  the  result  of  the  con- 
junction of  the  hour  and  the  man.  Monarch  cannot  com- 
mand it,  and  even  poets  are  often  powerless  to  achieve  it. 
No  one  of  the  great  national  hymns  has  been  written  by  a 
great  poet.  But  for  his  single  immortal  lyric,  neither  the 
author  of  the  "Marseillaise"  *  nor  the  author  of  the  "Wacht 
am  Rhein"2  would  have  his  line  in  the  biographical  dic- 
tionaries. But  when  a  song  has  once  taken  root  in  the 
hearts  of  a  people,  time  itself  is  powerless  against  it.  The 
flat  and  feeble  "Partant  pour  la  Syrie,"  which  a  filial 
fiat  made  the  hymn  of  imperial  France,  had  to  give  way  to  the 
strong  and  virile  notes  of  the  "Marseillaise,"  when  need 
was  to  arouse  the  martial  spirit  of  the  French  in  1870.  The 
noble  measures  of  "God  Save  the  King,"  as  simple  and  dig- 
nified a  national  hymn  as  any  country  can  boast,  lift  up 
the  hearts  of  the  English  people;  and  the  brisk  tune  of  the 
"British  Grenadiers"  has  swept  away  many  a  man  into  the 
ranks  of  the  recruiting  regiment.  The  English  are  rich  in 
war  tunes  and  the  pathetic  "Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me"  en- 
courages and  sustains  both  those  who  go  to  the  front  and 
those  who  remain  at  home.  Here  in  the  United  States  we 
have  no  "Marseillaise,"  no  "God  Save  the  King,"  no  "Wacht 
am  Rhein";  we  have  but  "Yankee  Doodle"  and  the  "Star- 
spangled  Banner."  More  than  one  enterprising  poet,  and 
more  than  one  aspiring  musician,  has  volunteered  to  take 

*  Author  of  the  Marseillaise.  Roujjet  de  Lisle  (1760-1836).  An  en- 
thusiastic French  Captain  who  composed  the  Marseillaise  at  Strasburg 
on  April  24,  1792,  as  a  song  for  the  Army  of  the  Rhine. 

'Author  of  the  Wacht  am  Rhein.  Max.  Schneckenburger  (1819- 
1849). 


THE  SONGS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR  205 

the  contract  to  supply  the  deficiency ;  as  yet  no  one  has  suc- 
ceeded. "Yankee  Doodle"  we  got  during  the  revolution, 
and  the  "Star-spangled  Banner"  was  the  gift  of  the  War  of 
1812 ;  from  the  Civil  "War  we  have  received  at  least  two  war 
songs  which,  as  war  songs  simply,  are  stronger  and  finer 
than  either  of  these — ' '  John  Brown 's  Body ' '  and  ' '  Marching 
Through  Georgia." 

Of  the  lyrical  outburst  which  the  war  cabled  forth  but 
little  trace  is  now  to  be  detected  in  literature  except  by  spe- 
cial students.  In  most  cases  neither  words  nor  music  have 
had  vitality  enough  to  survive  a  quarter  of  a  century. 
Chiefly,  indeed,  two  things  only  survive,  one  Southern  and 
the  other  Northern;  one  a  war-cry  in  verse,  the  other  a 
martial  tune :  one  is  the  lyric  ' '  My  Maryland ' '  and  the  other 
is  the  marching  song  "John  Brown's  Body."  The  origin  and 
development  of  the  latter,  the  rude  chant  to  which  a  million 
of  the  soldiers  of  the  Union  kept  time,  is  uncertain  and 
involved  in  dispute.  The  history  of  the  former  may  be 
declared  exactly,  and  by  the  courtesy  of  those  who  did  the 
deed — for  the  making  of  a  war  song  is  of  a  truth  a  deed 
at  arms — I  am  enabled  to  state  fully  the  circumstances 
under  which  it  was  written,  set  to  music,  and  first  sung 
before  the  soldiers  of  the  South. 

"My  Maryland"  was  written  by  Mr.  James  R.  Randall,  a 
native  of  Baltimore,  and  now  residing  in  Augusta,  Georgia. 
The  poet  was  a  professor  of  English  literature  and  the  classics 
in  Poydras  College  at  Pointe  Coupee,  on  the  Faussee  Riviere, 
in  Louisiana,  about  seven  miles  from  the  Mississippi;  and 
there  in  April,  1861,  he  read  in  the  New  Orleans  Delta  the 
news'  of  the  attack  on  the  Massachusetts  troops  as  they  passed 
through  Baltimore.  "This  account  excited  me  greatly,"  Mr. 
Randall  wrote  in  answer  to  my  request  for  information;  "I 
had  long  been  absent  from  my  native  city,  and  the  startling 
event  there  inflamed  my  mind.  That  night  I  could  not  sleep, 
for  my  nerves  were  all  unstrung,  and  I  could  not  dismiss 
what  I  had  read  in  the  paper  from  my  mind.  About  mid- 
night I  rose,  lit  a  candle,  and  went  to  my  desk.  Some  power- 
ful spirit  appeared  to  possess  me,  and  almost  involuntarily 


206  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

I  proceeded  to  write  the  song  of  'My  Maryland.'  I  re- 
member that  the  idea  appeared  to  first  take  shape  as  music 
in  the  brain — some  wild  air  that  I  cannot  now  recall.  The 
whole  poem  was  dashed  off  rapidly  when  once  begun.  It 
was  not  composed  in  cold  blood,  but  under  what  may  be 
called  a  conflagration  of  the  senses,  if  not  an  inspiration  of 
the  intellect.  I  was  stirred  to  a  desire  for  some  way  linking 
my  name  with  that  of  my  native  State,  if  not  'with  my  land's 
language'.  But  I  never  expected  to  do  this  with  one  single, 
supreme  effort,  and  no  one  was  more  surprised  than  I  was 
at  the  widespread  and  instantaneous  popularity  of  the  lyric 
I  had  been  so  strangely  stimulated  to  write."  Mr.  Randall 
read  the  poem  the  next  morning  to  the  college  boys,  and  at 
their  suggestion  sent  it  to  the  Delta,  in  which  it  was  first 
printed,  and  from  which  it  was  copied  into  nearly  every 
Southern  journal.  "I  did  not  concern  myself  much  about 
it,  but  very  soon,  from  all  parts  of  the  country,  there  was 
borne  to  me,  in  my  remote  place  of  residence,  evidence  that 
I  had  made  a  great  hit,  and  that,  whatever  might  be  the 
fate  of  the  Confederacy,  the  song  would  survive  it. ' ' 

Published  in  the  last  days  of  April,  1861,  when  every 
eye  was  fixed  on  the  border  States,  the  stirring  stanzas  of  the 
Tyrta?an  bard  3  appeared  in  the  very  nick  of  time.  There  is 
often  a  feeling  afloat  in  the  minds  of  men,  undefined  and 
vague  for  want  of  one  to  give  it  form,  and  held  in  solution, 
as  it  were,  until  a  chance  word  dropped  in  the  ear  of  a 
poet  suddenly  crystallizes  this  feeling  into  song,  in  which  all 
may  see  clearly  and  sharply  reflected  what  in  their  own 
thought  was  shapeless  and  hazy.  It  was  Mr.  Randall's  good 
fortune  to  be  the  instrument  through  which  the  South  spoke. 
By  a  natural  reaction  his  burning  lines  helped  to  fire  the 
Southern  heart.  To  do  their  work  well,  his  words  needed 
to  be  wedded  to  music.  Unlike  the  authors  of  the  "Star- 
spangled  Banner"  and  the  "Marseillaise,"  the  author  of 
My  Maryland"  had  not  written  it  to  fit  a  tune  already 


<  i 


•Tyrtsean  Bard.  Tyrtams  (7th  century  B.C.)  waa  an  unknown 
crippled  Greek  school  teacher  who  wrote  songs  of  such  power  that  they 
inspired  the  Spartans  to  victory. 


THE  SONGS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR  20T 

familiar.  It  was  left  for  a  lady  of  Baltimore  to  lend  the  lyric 
the  musical  wings  it  needed  to  enable  it  to  reach  every  camp- 
fire  of  the  Southern  armies.  To  the  courtesy  of  this  lady,  then 
Miss  Hetty  Cary,  and  now  the  wife  of  Professor  H.  Newell 
Martin,  of  Johns  Hopkins  University,  I  am  indebted  for  a 
picturesque  description  of  the  marriage  of  the  words  to 
the  music,  and  of  the  first  singing  of  the  song  before  the 
Southern  troops. 

The  house  of  Mrs.  Martin's  father  was  the  headquarters 
for  the  Southern  sympathizers  of  Baltimore.  Correspond- 
ence, money,  clothing,  supplies  of  all  kinds  went  thence 
through  the  lines  to  the  young  men  of  the  city  who  had 
joined  the  Confederate  army.  "The  enthusiasm  of  the  girls 
who  worked  and  of  the  'boys'  who  watched  for  their  chance 
to  slip  through  the  lines  to  Dixie's  land  found  vent  and 
inspiration  in  such  patriotic  songs  as  could  be  made  or 
adapted  to  suit  our  needs.  The  glee  club  was  to  hold  its  meet- 
ing in  our  parlors  one  evening  early  in  June,  and  my  sister, 
Mis?  Jenny  Cary,  being  the  only  musical  member  of  the 
family,  had  charge  of  the  program  on  the  occasion.  With 
a  school-girl's  eagerness  to  score  a  success,  she  resolved 
to  secure  some  new  and  ardent  expression  of  feelings  that 
by  this  time  were  wrought  up  to  the  point  of  explosion. 
In  vain  she  searched  through  her  stock  of  songs  and  airs — 
nothing  seemed  intense  enough  to  suit  her.  Aroused  by  her 
tone  of  despair,  I  came  to  the  rescue  with  the  suggestion 
that  she  should  adapt  the  words  of  'Maryland,  my  Mary- 
land,' which  had  been  constantly  on  my  lips  since  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  lyric  a  few  days  before  in  the  South.  I 
produced  the  paper  and  began  declaiming  the  verses. 
'Lauriger  Horatius!'4  she  exclaimed,  and  in  a  flash  the  im- 
mortal song  found  voice  in  the  stirring  air  so  perfectly 
adapted  to  it.  That  night,  when  her  contralto  voice  rang 
out  the  stanzas,  the  refrain  rolled  forth  from  every  throat 
present  without  pause  or  preparation ;  and  the  enthusiasm 
communicated  itself  with  such  effect  to  a  crowd  assembled 

*  Lauriger  Horatius.     The  first  words  of  a  well-known  college  song 
written  in  Latin. 


208  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

beneath  our  open  windows  as  to  endanger  seriously  the  lib- 
erties of  the  party." 

"Lauriger  Horatius"  had  long  been  a  favorite  college  song, 
and  it  had  been  introduced  into  the  Gary  household  by  Mr. 
Burton  N.  Harrison,  then  a  Yale  student.  The  air  to  which 
it  is  sung  is  used  also  for  a  lovely  German  lyric,  "Tannen- 
baum,  O  Tannenbaum, ' '  which  Longfellow  has  translated  ' '  O 
Hemlock  Tree."  The  transmigration  of  tunes  is  too  large 
and  fertile  a  subject  for  me  to  do  more  here  than  refer  to 
it.  The  taking  of  the  air  of  a  jovial  college  song  to  use  as 
the  setting  of  a  fiery  war-lyric  may  seem  strange  and  curious, 
but  only  to  those  who  are  not  familiar  with  the  adventures 
and  transformations  a  tune  is  often  made  to  undergo.  Hop- 
kinson  's  5  ' '  Hail  Columbia  ! ' '  for  example,  was  written  to  the 
tune  of  the  "President's  March,"  just  as  Mrs.  Howe's6 
"Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic"  was  written  to  "John 
Brown's  Body."  The  "Wearing  of  the  Green,"  of  the  Irish- 
man, is  sung  to  the  same  air  as  the  "Benny  Havens,  O!"  of 
the  West-Pointer.  The  "Star-spangled  Banner"  has  to  make 
shift  with  the  second-hand  music  of  "Anacreon  in  Heaven," 
while  our  other  national  air,  "Yankee  Doodle,"  uses  over  the 
notes  of  an  old  English  nursery  rhyme,  "Lucy  Locket,"  once 
a  personal  lampoon  in  the  days  of  the  "Beggars'  Opera,"7 
and  now  surviving  in  the  "Baby's  Opera"  of  Mr.  Walter 
Crane.8  "My  Country,  'tis  of  Thee,"  is  set  to  the  truly 
British  tune  of  "God  Save  the  King,"  the  origin  of  which  is 
doubtful,  as  it  is  claimed  by  the  French  and  the  Germans  as 
well  as  the  English.  In  the  hour  of  battle  a  war-tune  is  sub- 
ject to  the  right  of  capture,  and,  like  the  cannon  taken  from 
the  enemy,  it  is  turned  against  its  maker. 

"Joseph  Hopkinson  (1770-1842).  Author  of  Hail  Columbia!  He 
was  the  son  of  Francis  Hopkinson  who  signed  the  Declaration  of 
Independence. 

•Julia  Ward  Howe  (1819-1910).  Author  of  the  Battle  Hymn  of  the 
Republic,  which  she  wrote  in  1861  as  the  result  of  a  visit  to  a  great 
camp  near   Washington. 

''Beggars'  Opera.  An  opera  written  by  John  Gay  (1685-1732).  The 
songs  in  the  opera  made  use  of  well-known  Scotch  and  English  tunee. 
The  opera  itself  is  a  satire  on  dishonesty  in  public  life. 

8  Walter  Crane  (1845-1915).  An  English  painter  and  producer  of 
children 's  books. 


THE  SONGS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR  209 


SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  Why  cannot  a  national  hymn  be  made  to  order? 

2.  Why  is  it  true  that  the  great  national  hymns  have  not  been 

written  by  great  poets? 

3.  What  establishes  the  worth  of  a  national  hymn? 

4.  Name  the  best  national  hymns  of  the  United  States. 

5.  What  are  some  of  the  best  national  hymns  of  other  countries? 

6.  What  type  of  music  is  necessary  for  a  good  national  hymn? 

7.  Tell  the  story  of  the  origin  of  My  Maryland. 

8.  What  sources  gave  rise  to  the  music  of  many  of  our  national 
hymns? 

9.  Explain  the  last  sentence  of  the  essay. 

10.  Point  out  the  respects  in  which  the  essay  differs  from  an  encyl- 
clopedia  article. 


SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 


1.  Popular  Songs 

11.  Games 

2.  Popular  Music 

12.  Athletic  Sports 

3.  Popular  Opera 

13.  Streets 

4.  Fashions  in  Dress 

14.  Furniture 

5.  Every  Day  Habits 

15.  Dancing 

6.  Hats 

16.  Mother  Goose  Rimes 

7.  Buttons 

17.  Favorite  Poems 

8.  Uniforms 

18.  Legends 

9.  Social  Customs 

19.  Evangeline 

10.  Architecture 

20.  Political  Customs 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

When  you  have  chosen  a  subject  consult  encyclopedias  and  other 
works  of  reference  and  find  out  all  you  can  that  is  peculiarly  in- 
teresting to  you.  Do  not  make  any  attempt  to  record  all  the  facts 
that  you  may  learn.  Select  those  that  make  some  deep  appeal  to 
you  and  that  will  be  likely  to  have  unusual  interest  for  others. 
When  you  write  do  all  that  you  can  to  avoid  the  encyclopedia 
method.  Write  in  a  pleasantly  familiar  manner  that  will  carry 
3Tour  interests  and  your  personality. 


LOCOMOTION  IN  THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY* 

By  H.  G.  WELLS 

(1866 — ).  A  leading  novelist,  essayist  and  historian. 
Through  his  energy  and  high  ability  he  won  his  way  to  a  place 
in  the  educational  world,  and  ultimately  to  a  commanding  posi- 
tion in  the  literary  world.  He  writes  with  unusual  vigor  and 
originality.  Some  of  his  most  stimulating  books  are  The  Time 
Machine;  The  War  of  the  Worlds;  When  the  Sleeper  Wakes; 
Anticipations;  Tono  Bungay;  The  Future  of  America;  Social 
Forces  in  England  and  America;   The  History  of  the  World. 

Some  essays  go  beyond  the  world  of  little  things  and  set  forward 
their  writers'  meditations  on  matters  of  great  import.  Such  essays 
look  back  across  the  whole  field  of  history  or  look  forward  into  the 
remoteness  of  the  future.  In  essays  of  this  kind  Mr.  H.  G.  Wells  has 
done  much  to  stimulate  thought. 

In  the  selection  that  follows  Mr.  Wells  traces  the  development  of 
locomotion  from  the  days  of  wagons  to  the  days  of  steam.  At  the  close 
of  the  selection  Mr.  Wells  suggests  to  the  reader  that  the  advance  to  be 
made  in  the  future  may  be  as  great  as  that  which  has  been  made  in 
the  past. 

The  beginning  of  this  twentieth  century  happens  to  coin- 
cide with  a  very  interesting  phase  in  that  great  development 
of  means  of  land  transit  that  has  been  the  distinctive  feature 
(speaking  materially)  of  the  nineteenth  century.  The  nine- 
teenth century,  when  it  takes  its  place  with  the  other  centuries 
in  the  chronological  charts  of  the  future,  will,  if  it  needs  a 
symbol,  almost  inevitably  have  as  that  symbol  a  steam-engine 
running  upon  a  railway.  This  period  covers  the  first  ex- 
periments, the  first  great  developments,  and  the  complete 
elaboration  of  that  mode  of  transit,  and  the  determination  of 
nearly  all  the  broad  features  of  this  century's  history  may 
be  traced  directly  or  indirectly  to  that  process.     And  since 

*  From  "Anticipations"  by  H.  G.  Wells.  Copyright  by  the  North 
American  Review  Publishing  Company,  1901;  copyright  by  Harper 
and  Brother,  1902. 

210 


LOCOMOTION  IN  THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  211 

an  interesting  light  is  thrown  upon  the  new  phases  in  land 
locomotion  that  are  now  beginning,  it  will  be  well  to  begin 
this  forecast  with  a  retrospect,  and  to  revise  very  shortly 
the  history  of  the  addition  of  steam  travel  to  the  resources  of 
mankind. 

A  curious  and  profitable  question  arises  at  once.  How  is 
it  that  the  steam  locomotive  appeared  at  the  time  it  did,  and 
not  earlier  in  the  history  of  the  world? 

Because  it  was  not  invented.  But  why  was  it  not  invented  ? 
Not  for  want  of  a  crowning  intellect,  for  none  of  the  many 
minds  concerned  in  the  development  strikes  one — as  the  mind 
of  Newton,  Shakespeare,  or  Darwin  x  strikes  one — as  being 
that  of  an  unprecedented  man.  It  is  not  that  the  need  for 
the  railway  and  steam-engine  had  only  just  arisen,  and — to 
use  one  of  the  most  egregiously  wrong  and  misleading  phrases 
that  ever  dropped  from  the  lips  of  man — the  demand  created 
the  supply;  it  was  quite  the  other  way  about.  There  was 
really  no  urgent  demand  for  such  things  at  the  time ;  the 
current  needs  of  the  European  world  seem  to  have  been  fairly 
well  served  by  coach  and  diligence  in  1800,  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  every  administrator  of  intelligence  in  the  Roman  and 
Chinese  empires  must  have  felt  an  urgent  need  for  more  rapid 
methods  of  transit  than  those  at  his  disposal.  Nor  was  the 
development  of  the  steam  locomotive  the  result  of  any  sudden 
discovery  of  steam.  Steam,  and  something  of  the  mechanical 
possibilities  of  steam,  had  been  known  for  two  thousand 
years;  it  had  been  used  for  pumping  water,  opening  doors, 
and  working  toys  before  the  Christian  era.  It  may  be  urged 
that  this  advance  was  the  outcome  of  that  new  and  more 
systematic  handling  of  knowledge  initiated  by  Lord  Bacon  2 

1  Newton,  Shakespeare,  or  Darwin.  Sir  Isaac  Newton  (1642-1727). 
A  great  English  mathematician,  especially  noted  for  his  establishment 
of  knowledge  of  the  law  of  gravitation.  William  Shakespeare  (1564- 
1616).  The  great  English  dramatist,  regarded  as  the  greatest  of 
English  writers.  Charles  Darwin  (1809-1882).  The  English  natural- 
ist, who  established  a  theory  of  evolution.  Three  of  the  most  intel- 
lectual men   of   all   time. 

3  Sir  Francis  Bacon  (1561-1626).  A  great  English  philosopher,  who 
established  the  inductive  study  of  science,  that  is,  study  through  investi- 
gation and  experiment. 


212  MODERN   ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

and  sustained  by  the  Royal  Society ; 3  but  this  does  not  appear 
to  have  been  the  case,  though  no  doubt  the  new  habits  of 
mind  that  spread  outward  from  that  center  played  their  part. 
The  men  whose  names  are  cardinal  in  the  history  of  this 
development  invented,  for  the  most  part,  in  a  quite  empirical 
way,  and  Trevithick's  4  engine  was  running  along  its  rails  and 
Evan's0  boat  was  walloping  up  the  Hudson  a  quarter  of  a 
century  before  Carnot 6  expounded  his  general  proposition. 
There  were  no  such  deductions  from  principles  to  application 
as  occur  in  the  story  of  electricity  to  justify  our  attribution 
of  the  steam-engine  to  the  scientific  impulse.  Nor  does  this 
particular  invention  seem  to  have  been  directly  due  to  the 
new  possibilities  of  reducing,  shaping,  and  casting  iron, 
afforded  by  the  substitution  of  coal  for  wood  in  iron  works, 
through  the  greater  temperature  afforded  by  a  coal  fire.  In 
China  coal  has  been  used  in  the  reduction  of  iron  for  many 
centuries.  No  doubt  these  new  facilities  did  greatly  help  the 
steam-engine  in  its  invasion  of  the  field  of  common  life,  but 
quite  certainly  they  were  not  sufficient  to  set  it  going.  It 
was,  indeed,  not  one  cause,  but  a  very  complex  and  unprece- 
dented series  of  causes,  set  the  steam  locomotive  going.  It 
was  indirectly,  and  in  another  way,  that  the  introduction  of 
coal  became  the  decisive  factor.  One  peculiar  condition  of 
its  production  in  England  seems  to  have  supplied  just  one 
ingredient  that  had  been  missing  for  two  thousand  years  in 
the  group  of  conditions  that  were  necessary  before  the  steam 
locomotive  could  appear. 

This  missing  ingredient  was  a  demand  for  some  compara- 
tively simple,  profitable  machine,  upon  which  the  elementary 
principles  of  steam  utilization  could  be  worked  out.     If  one 

*  The  Royal  Society.  Established  about  1660  in  London,  England,  for 
the  study  of  science.  It  has  had  a  great  influence  in  developing  scien- 
tific knowledge. 

♦Richard  Trevithick  (1771-1833).  An  English  inventor  who  did  mucb 
to  improve  the  steam  engine.  In  1801  his  locomotive  conveyed  the  first 
passengers  ever  carried  by  steam. 

'Oliver  Evans  (1755-1819).  An  American  inventor  who  was  one  ot 
tho  first  to  use  steam  at  high  pressure. 

"Sadi  Carnot  (1796-1832).  A  French  physicist  whose  "principle" 
concerns  the  development  of  power  through  the  use  of  heat. 


LOCOMOTION  IN  THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  213 

wtudies  Stephenson's  "Rocket"7  in  detail,  as  one  realizes  its 
profound  complexity,  one  begins  to  understand  how  impos- 
sible it  would  have  been  for  that  structure  to  have  come  into 
existence  de  novo*  however  urgently  the  world  had  need  of  it. 
But  it  happened  that  the  coal  needed  to  replace  the  dwindling 
forests  of  this  small  and  exceptionally  rain-saturated  country 
occurs  in  low,  hollow  basins  overlying  clay,  and  not,  as  in 
China  and  the  Alleghenies,  for  example,  on  high-lying  out- 
crops, that  can  be  worked  as  chalk  is  worked  in  England. 
From  this  fact  it  followed  that  some  quite  unprecedented 
pumping  appliances  became  necessary,  and  the  thoughts  of 
practical  men  were  turned  thereby  to  the  long-neglected  pos- 
sibilities of  steam.  Wind  was  extremely  inconvenient  for  the 
purpose  of  pumping,  because  in  these  latitudes  it  is  incon- 
stant :  it  was  costly,  too,  because  at  any  time  the  laborers 
might  be  obliged  to  sit  at  the  pit's  mouth  for  weeks  together, 
whistling  for  a  gale  or  waiting  for  the  water  to  be  got  under 
again.  But  steam  had  already  been  used  for  pumping  upon 
one  or  two  estates  in  England — rather  as  a  toy  than  in  earnest 
— before  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  the  at- 
tempt to  employ  it  was  so  obvious  as  to  be  practically  un- 
avoidable.9 The  water  trickling  into  the  coal  measures  10  acted, 
therefore,  like  water  trickling  upon  chemicals  that  have  long 
been  mixed  together,  dry  and  inert.  Immediately  the  latent 
reactions  were  set  going.  Savery,11  Newcome,11  a  host  of  other 
workers  culminating  in  Watt,12  working  always  by  steps  that 
were  at  least  so  nearly  obvious  as  to  give  rise  again  and  again 
to  simultaneous  discoveries,  changed  this  toy  of  steam  into  a 

1  Stephenson 's  Rocket.  A  locomotive  nade  in  1829  by  George  Stephen- 
son (1781-1848),  which  was  so  successful  that  it  won  a  prize  of  £500. 
Stephenson  was  one  of  the  most  potent  forces  in  developing  steam 
locomotion. 

8  De  Novo.     As  something  entirely  new. 

9  It  might  have  been  used  in  the  same  way  in  Italy  in  the  first  century, 
had  not  the  grandiose  taste  for  aqueducts  prevailed. 

10  And  also  into  the  Cornwall  mines,  be  it  noted. 

"Captain  Thomas  Savery  (1650?-1715).  An  English  engineer  who 
made  one  of  the  first  steam  engines  in  1705,  working  in  connection  with 
Thomas  Newcome. 

"James  Watt  (1736-1819).  A  Scotch  inventor  who  in  1765  perfected 
the  condensing  steam  engine. 


214  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

real,  a  commercial  thing,  developed  a  trade  in  pumping- 
engines,  created  foundries  and  a  new  art  of  engineering,  and, 
almost  unconscious  of  what  they  were  doing,  made  the  steam 
locomotive  a  well-nigh  unavoidable  consequence.  At  last, 
after  a  century  of  improvement  on  pumping-engines,  there 
remained  nothing  but  the  very  obvious  stage  of  getting  the 
engine  that  had  been  developed  on  wheels  and  out  upon  the 
ways  of  the  world. 

Ever  and  ever  again  during  the  eighteenth  century  an 
engine  would  be  put  upon  the  roads  and  pronounced  a  failure 
— one  monstrous  Palseoferric  creature 13  was  visible  on  a 
French  high-road  as  early  as  1769 — but  by  the  dawn  of  the 
nineteenth  century  the  problem  had  very  nearly  got  itself 
solved.  By  1804  Trevithick  had  a  steam  locomotive  indis- 
putably in  motion  and  almost  financially  possible,  and  from 
his  hands  it  puffed  its  way,  slowly  at  first,  and  then,  under 
Stephenson,  faster  and  faster,  to  a  transitory  empire  ovei/  (he 
earth.  It  was  a  steam  locomotive — but  for  all  that  it  was  pri- 
marily a  steam-engine  for  pumping  adapted  to  a  new  end;  it 
was  a  steam-engine  whose  ancestral  stage  had  developed  under 
conditions  that  were  by  no  means  exacting  in  the  matter  of 
weight.  And  from  that  fact  followed  a  consequence  that  has 
hampered  railway  travel  and  transport  very  greatly,  ano 
that  is  tolerated  nowadays  only  through  a  belief  in  its  prac- 
tical necessity.  The  steam  locomotive  was  all  too  huge  and 
heavy  for  the  high-road — it  had  to  be  put  upon  rails.  And 
so  clearly  linked  are  steam-engines  and  railways  in  our  minds, 
that,  in  common  language  now,  the  latter  implies  the  former. 
But,  indeed,  it  is  the  result  of  accidental  impediments,  of 
avoidable  difficulties,  that  we  travel  to-day  on  rails. 

Kailway  traveling  is  at  best  a  compromise.  The  quite  con- 
ceivable ideal  of  locomotive  convenience,  so  far  as  travelers 
are  concerned,  is  surely  a  highly  mobile  conveyance  capable 
of  traveling  easily  and  swiftly  to  any  desired  point,  travers- 
ing, at  a  reasonably  controlled  pace,  the  ordinary  roads  and 
streets,  and  having  access  for  higher  rates  of  speed  and  long- 
distance  traveling   to   specialized   ways   restricted   to   swift 

13  Palaeof erric  creature.    Ancient  iron  creature. 


LOCOMOTION  IN  THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  215 

traffic  and  possibly  furnished  with  guide  rails.  For  the  col- 
lection and  delivery  of  all  sorts  of  perishable  goods  also  the 
samp  system  is  obviously  altogether  superior  to  the  existing 
methods.  Moreover,  such  a  system  would  admit  of  that 
secular  progress  in  engines  and  vehicles  that  the  stereotyped 
conditions  of  the  railway  have  almost  completely  arrested, 
because  it  would  allow  almost  any  new  pattern  to  be  put  at 
once  upon  the  ways  without  interference  with  the  established 
traffic.  Had  such  an  ideal  been  kept  in  view  from  the  first, 
the  traveler  would  now  be  able  to  get  through  his  long- 
distance journeys  at  a  pace  of  from  seventy  miles  or  more 
an  hour  without  changing,  and  without  any  of  the  trouble, 
waiting,  expense,  and  delay  that  arise  between  the  household 
or  hotel  and  the  actual  rail.  It  was  an  ideal  that  must  have 
been  at  least  possible  to  an  intelligent  person  fifty  years  ago, 
and,  had  it  been  resolutely  pursued,  the  world,  instead  of 
fumbling  from  compromise  to  compromise  as  it  always  has 
done,  and  as  it  will  do  very  probably  for  many  centuries  yet, 
might  have  been  provided  to-day,  not  only  with  an  infinitely 
more  practicable  method  of  communication,  but  with  one 
capable  of  a  steady  and  continual  evolution  from  year  to  year. 

But  there  was  a  more  obvious  path  of  development  and  one 
immediately  cheaper,  and  along  that  path  went  short-sighted 
Nineteenth  Century  Progress,  quite  heedless  of  the  possi- 
bility of  ending  in  a  cul-de-sac.1*  The  first  locomotives,  apart 
from  the  heavy  tradition  of  their  ancestry,  were,  like  all  ex- 
perimental machinery,  needlessly  clumsy  and  heavy,  and 
their  inventors,  being  men  of  insufficient  faith,  instead  of 
working  for  lightness  and  smoothness  of  motion,  took  the 
easier  course  of  placing  them  upon  the  tramways  that  were 
already  in  existence — chiefly  for  the  transit  of  heavy  goods 
over  soft  roads.  And  from  that  followed  a  very  interesting 
and  curious  result. 

These  tram-lines  very  naturally  had  exactly  the  width  of 
an  ordinary  cart,  a  width  prescribed  by  the  strength  of  one 
horse.  Few  people  saw  in  the  locomotive  anything  but  a 
cheap  substitute  for  horseflesh,  or  found  anything  incongru- 

14  Cul-de-sac.    A  passage  closed  at  one  end. 


216  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

ous  in  letting  the  dimensions  of  a  horse  determine  the  di- 
mensions of  an  engine.  It  mattered  nothing  that  from  the 
first  the  passenger  was  ridiculously  cramped,  hampered,  and 
crowded  in  the  carriage.  He  had  always  been  cramped  in  a 
coach,  and  it  would  have  seemed  "Utopian"  in — a  very  dread- 
ful thing  indeed  to  our  grandparents — to  propose  travel  with- 
out cramping.  By  mere  inertia  the  horse-cart  gauge — the  4 
foot  8!/o  inch  gauge — nemine  contradicente,16  established  itself 
in  the  world,  and  now  everywhere  the  train  is  dwarfed  to  a 
scale  that  limits  alike  its  comfort,  power,  and  speed.  Before 
every  engine,  as  it  were,  trots  the  ghost  of  a  superseded  horse, 
refuses  most  resolutely  to  trot  faster  than  fifty  miles  an  hour, 
and  shies  and  threatens  catastrophe  at  every  point  and  curve. 
That  fifty  miles  an  hour,  most  authorities  are  agreed,  is  the 
limit  of  our  speed  for  land  travel  so  far  as  existing  conditions 
go.17  Only  a  revolutionary  reconstruction  of  the  railways  or 
the  development  of  some  new  competing  method  of  land  travel 
can  carry  us  beyond  that. 

People  of  to-day  take  the  railways  for  granted  as  they 
take  sea  and  sky ;  they  were  born  in  a  railway  world,  and 
they  expect  to  die  in  one.  But  if  only  they  will  strip  from 
their  eyes  the  most  blinding  of  all  influences,  acquiescence  in 
the  familiar,  they  will  see  clearly  enough  that  this  vast  and 
elaborate  railway  system  of  ours,  by  which  the  whole  world  is 
linked  together,  is  really  only  a  vast  system  of  trains  of  horse- 
wagons  and  coaches  drawn  along  rails  by  pumping-engine? 
upon  wheels.  Is  that,  in  spite  of  its  present  vast  extension, 
likely  to  remain  the  predominant  method  of  land  locomotion, 
even  for  so  short  a  period  as  the  next  hundred  years? 

"Utopian.  In  1516  Sir  Thomas  More  (1478-1535)  wrote  about  an 
island  called  Utopia  on  which  was  an  ideal  government.  The  word 
"Utopian"  means  "ideal  beyond  hope  of  attainment." 

18  Nemine  contradicente.     No  one  saying  anything  against  it. 

17  It  might  be  worse.  If  the  biggest  horses  had  been  Shetland  ponies, 
we  should  be  traveling  now  in  railway  carriages  to  hold  two  each  side 
at  a  maximum  speed  of  perhaps  twenty  miles  an  hour.  There  is  hardly 
any  reason,  beyond  this  tradition  of  the  horse,  why  the  railway  carriage 
should  not  be  even  nine  or  ten  feet  wide,  the  width  that  is,  of  the 
smallest  room  in  which  people  can  live  in  comfort,  hung  on  such  springs 
and  wheels  as  would  effectually  destroy  all  vibration,  and  furnished  with 
all  the  equipment  of  comfortable  chambers. 


LOCOMOTION  IN  THE  TWENTIETH  CENTURY  217 


SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  What,  according  to  Mr.  Wells,  was  the  distinctive  feature  of  the 

nineteenth  century1? 

2.  Why  did  steam  locomotion  appear  when  it  did? 

3.  How   many    of   the   principles   of   steam   locomotion   had   been 

known  before  the  nineteenth  century? 

4.  Name  all  the  causes  that  contributed   to   the   development   of 

steam  locomotion. 

5.  Explain   the  relation  between  the  mining-  of  coal   and   steam 

locomotion. 

6.  What  characteristics  of  wagons  appear  in  steam  locomotives? 

7.  In  what  ways  is  modern  steam  locomotion  unsatisfactory? 

8.  What  are  some  of  the  possibilities  for  future  locomotion? 

9.  On  what  fields  of  information  is  the  essay  based? 
10.  What  are  the  characteristics  of  Mr.  Wells'  style? 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 

1.  The  Development  of  Steam     11.  Steps    Toward    the    Use    or 

Boats  Motor  Trucks 

2.  The     Development     of     the     12.  The  Improvement  of  High- 

Automobile  ways 

3.  The  Development  of  the  Air-     13.  The  Evolution  of  Good  Side- 

plane  walks 

4.  The  Development  of  the  Bi-    14.  The  Development  of  the  Tel- 

cycle  ephone 

5.  The  Story  of  Roller  Skates      15.  Improved  Railway  Stations 

6.  The    Development    of    Com-    16.  The  Use  of  Voting  Machines 

fort  in  Travel  17.  The  Protection  of  the  Food 

7.  The   Story   of   the   Sleeping  Supply 

Car  18.  The  Increase  of  Forest  Pro- 

8.  The  Development  of  the  Din-  tection 

in?  Car  19.  The   Work   of  the  Weather 

9.  Comfort  in  Modern  Carriages  Bureau 

10.  The  Development  of  the  Mail     20.  The     Development     of     the 

System  Wireless   Telegraph. 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

Before  you  can  write  upon  any  such  subject  as  the  one  upoi: 
which  Mr.  Wells  wrote  it  will  be  necessary  for  you  to  obtain  a  wido 


218  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

amount  of  information.  Go  to  any  encyclopedia  and  find  lines  along 
which  you  can  investigate  further.  Then  consult  special  books  that 
you  may  obtain  in  a  good  library.  When  you  have  gained  full  infor- 
mation remember  that  it  is  your  business  not  to  transmit  the 
information  that  you  have  gained,  but  to  put  down  on  paper  the 
thoughts  to  which  the  information  has  led  you.  Try  to  show  the 
relation  between  the  past  and  the  present,  and  to  indicate  some 
forecast  for  the  future.  Do  all  this  in  a  pleasantly  straightforward 
style  as  though  you  were  talking  earnestly. 


THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS 

By  CHARLES  S.  BROOKS 

(1878 — ).  After  some  years  of  business  life,  following  his 
graduation  from  Yale,  Mr.  Brooks  turned  entirely  to  literary 
work.  He  has  written  A  Journey  to  Bagdad;  Three  Pippins 
and  Cheese  to  Come;  Chimney-Pot  Papers.  During  the  World 
War  he  served  with  the  Department  of  State  in  Waslwigton. 

Here  is  a  delightful,  easy-going  essay  that  presents  most  effectively 
the  ideals  and  the  methods  of  essay  writing. 

An  essayist,  Mr.  Brooks  says,  has  no  great  literary  purpose  to 
accomplish:  he  is  a  reader,  a  thinker,  a  person  who  is  interested  in  all 
sorts  of  subjects  just  because  they  are  interesting.  He  writes  of  the 
little  things  in  life  because  he  loves  them.  He  is  essentially  a  lover  of 
books  and  of  libraries ;  one  who  dwells  in  the  companionship  of  pleasant 
thoughts;  one  who  gives  us  a  sort  of  happy  gossip  that  comes  across 
the  years,  redolent  with  the  charm  of  personality. 

An  essayist  needs  a  desk  and  a  library  near  at  hand,  be- 
cause an  essay  is  a  kind  of  back-stove  cookery.  A  novel  needs 
a  hot  fire,  so  to  speak.  A  dozen  chapters  bubble  in  their  turn 
above  the  reddest  coals,  while  an  essay  simmers  over  a  little 
flame.  Pieces  of  this  and  that,  an  odd  carrot,  as  it  were,  a 
left-over  potato,  a  pithy  bone,  discarded  trifles,  are  tossed  in 
from  time  to  time  to  feed  the  composition.  Raw  paragraphs, 
when  they  have  stewed  all  night,  at  last  become  tender  to  the 
fork.  An  essay,  therefore,  cannot  be  written  hurriedly  on 
the  knee.  Essayists,  as  a  rule,  chew  their  pencils.  Their 
desks  are  large  and  are  always  in  disorder.  There  is  a  stack 
of  books  on  the  clock-shelf ;  others  are  pushed  under  the  bed. 
Matches,  pencils,  and  bits  of  paper  mark  a  hundred  refer- 
ences. When  an  essayist  goes  out  from  his  lodging  he  wears 
the  kind  of  overcoat  that  holds  a  book  in  every  pocket;  his 
sagging  pockets  proclaim  him.  He  is  a  bulging  person,  so 
stuffed  even  in  his  dress  with  the  ideas  of  others  that  his  own 
leanness  is  concealed.    An  essayist  keeps  a  notebook  and  he 

219 


220  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

thumbs  it  for  forgotten  thoughts.  Nobody  is  safe  from  him. 
for  he  steals  from  every  one  he  meets.  Like  the  man  in  the 
old  poem,  he  relies  on  his  memory  for  his  wit. 

An  essayist  is  not  a  mighty  traveler.  He  does  not  run  to 
grapple  with  a  roaring  lion.  He  desires  neither  typhoon 
nor  tempest.  He  is  content  in  his  harbor  to  listen  to  the  storm 
upon  the  rocks,  if  now  and  then  by  a  lucky  chance  he  can 
shelter  some  one  from  the  wreck.  His  hands  are  not  red  with 
revolt  against  the  world.  He  has  glanced  upon  the  thoughts 
of  many  men,  and  as  opposite  philosophies  point  upon  the 
truth,  he  is  modest  with  his  own  and  tolerant  of  others.  He 
looks  at  the  stars  and,  knowing  in  what  a  dim  immensity  we 
travel,  he  writes  of  little  things  beyond  dispute.  There  are 
enough  to  weep  upon  the  shadows;  he,  like  a  dial,  marks  the 
light.  The  small  clatter  of  the  city  beneath  his  window,  the 
cry  of  peddlers,  children  chalking  their  games  upon  the  pave- 
ment, laundry  dancing  on  the  roofs,  and  smoke  in  the  winter 's 
wind — these  are  the  things  he  weaves  into  the  fabric  of  his 
thoughts.  Or  sheep  upon  the  hillside,  if  his  window  is  so 
lucky,  or  a  sunny  meadow  is  a  profitable  speculation.  And 
so,  while  the  novelist  is  struggling  up  a  dizzy  mountain, 
straining  through  the  tempest  to  see  the  kingdoms  of  the 
world,  behold  the  essayist,  snug  at  home,  content  with  little 
sights !  He  is  a  kind  of  poet — a  poet  whose  wings  are  clipped. 
He  flaps  to  no  great  heights,  and  sees  neither  the  devil  nor 
the  seven  oceans  nor  the  twelve  apostles.  He  paints  old 
thoughts  in  shiny  varnish  and,  as  he  is  able,  he  mends  small 
habits  here  and  there. 

And  therefore,  as  essayists  stay  at  home,  they  are  precise, 

almost  amorous,  in  the  posture  and  outlook  of  their  writing. 

Leigh  Hunt1  wished  a  great  library  next  his  study.     "But 

for  the  study  itself,"  he  writes,  "give  me  a  small  snug  place, 

almost  entirely  walled  with  books.    There  should  be  only  one 

window  in  it,  looking  on  trees."     How  the  precious  fellow 

scorns  the  mountains  and  the  ocean !     He  has  no  love,  it 

1  Leigh  Hunt  (1784-1859).  A  famous  English  essayist  and  poet,  noted 
for  his  love  of  books.  When  he  was  imprisoned  because  of  an  article  ridi- 
culing the  Prince  Regent  he  sent  for  so  many  books  that  he  made  his 
prison  a  sort  of  library. 


THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS  221 

seems,  for  typhoons  and  roaring  lions.  "I  entrench  myself 
in  my  books,"  he  continues,  "equally  against  sorrow  and  the 
weather.  If  the  wind  comes  down  the  passage,  I  look  about 
to  see  how  I  can  fence  it  off  by  a  better  disposition  of  my 
movables."  And  by  movables  he  means  his  books.  These 
were  his  screen  against  cold  and  trouble.  But  Leigh  Hunt 
had  been  in  prison  for  his  political  beliefs.  He  had  grappled 
with  his  lion.     So  perhaps,  after  all,  my  argument  fails. 

Mr.  Edmund  Gosse 2  had  a  different  method  to  the  same 
purpose.  He  "was  so  anxious  to  fly  all  outward  noise"  that 
he  wished  for  a  library  apart  from  the  house.  Maybe  he  had 
had  some  experience  with  Annie  and  her  clattering  broom- 
stick. "In  my  sleep,"  he  writes,  "  'when  dreams  are  multi- 
tude,' I  sometimes  fancy  that  one  day  I  shall  have  a  library 
in  a  garden.  The  phrase  seems  to  contain  the  whole  felicity 
of  man.  ...  It  sounds  like  having  a  castle  in  Spain,  or  a 
sheep-walk  in  Arcadia."3 

Montaigne's4  study  was  a  tower,  walled  all  about  with 
books.  At  his  table  in  the  midst  he  was  the  general  focus  of 
their  wisdom.  Hazlitt 5  wrote  much  at  an  inn  at  Winterslow, 
with  Salisbury  Plain  around  the  corner  of  his  view.  Except 
for  ill  health,  and  a  love  of  the  South  Seas  (here  was  the 
novelist  showing  itself),  Stevenson6  would  probably  have 
preferred  a  windy  perch  overlooking  Edinburgh. 

It  does  seem  as  if  rather  a  richer  flavor  were  given  to  a 
book  by  knowing  the  circumstance  of  its  composition.  Con- 
sequently readers,  as  they  grow  older,  turn  more  and  more 

2  Edmund  Gosse  (1849-  ).  A  noted  English  poet,  critic,  and 
student  of  literature.  Since  he  based  much  of  his  writing  on  close 
study  he  naturally  wished  for  quiet. 

3  A  castle  in  Spain,  or  a  sheep-walk  in  Arcadia.  Places  of  perfect 
happiness,  where  all  desired  things  may  be  obtained.  Arcadia  is  a 
mountain-surrounded  section  of  Greece  noted  for  its  happy  shepherd  life. 

*  Michel  de  Montaigne  (1533-1592).  The  great  French  essayist  who 
invented  the  familiar  essay. 

''William  Hazlitt  (1778-1830).  An  English  essayist,  lecturer,  biog- 
rapher and  critic;  a  student  of  literature. 

"Bobert  Louis  Stevenson  (1850-1894).  A  British  poet,  novelist,  short 
story  writer  and  essayist,  born  in  Edinburgh,  Scotland.  At  various 
times  he  lived  in  France,  Switzerland,  the  United  States  and  the  South 
Sea  Islands.     He  was  buried  in  Samoa. 


222  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

to  biography.  It  is  not  chiefly  the  biographies  that  deal  with 
great  crises  and  events,  but  rather  the  biographies  that  are 
concerned  with  small  circumstance  and  agreeable  gossip. 

Lately  in  a  book-shop  at  the  foot  of  Cornhill 7  I  fell  in  with 
an  old  scholar  who  told  me  that  it  was  his  practice  to  recom- 
mend four  books,  which,  taken  end  on  end,  furnished  the 
general  history  of  English  writing  from  the  Restoration  8  to 
a  time  within  his  own  memory.  These  books  were  Pepy's 
"Diary,"9  Boswell's  "Johnson,"10  the  "Letters  and  Dia- 
ries" of  Madame  D'Arblay,11  and  the  "Diary  of  Crabbe 
Robinson.12 

Beginning  almost  with  the  days  of  Cromwell,  here  is  a 
chain  of  pleasant  gossip  the  space  of  more  than  two  hundred 
years.  Perhaps  at  the  first  there  were  old  fellows  still  alive 
who  could  remember  Shakespeare;  who  still  sat  in  chimney- 
corners  and  babbled  through  their  toothless  gums  of  Black- 
friars  and  the  Globe.13  And  at  the  end  we  find  a  reference  to 
President  Lincoln  and  his  freeing  of  the  slaves. 

Here  are  a  hundred  authors,  perhaps  a  thousand,  tucking 
up  their  cuffs,  looking  out  from  their  familiar  windows, 
scribbling  their  masterpieces. 

7  Cornhill.     A  famous  street  in  London. 

8  The  Restoration.  The  restoration  of  the  English  monarchy  in  1660 
after  its  overthrow  by  the  Parliamentary  forces  under  Oliver  CromwelL 

•Samuel  Pepys  (1633-1703).  An  English  business  man,  office-holder 
and  lover  of  books.  For  nine  years  he  kept  a  most  personal,  self- 
revealing  diary,  which  he  wrote  in  shorthand.  The  diary  gives  an 
accurate  picture  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived. 

10  James  Boswell  (1740-1795).  A  Scotch  advocate  and  author,  noted 
especially  for  his  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson,  LL.D.,  a  book  that  many 
pronounce  the  best  biography  ever  written.  The  work  makes  one 
intimately  acquainted  with  Samuel  Johnson  (1709-1784),  a  great  es- 
sayist, poet,  biographer,  play-writer,  and  author  of  a  famous  dictionary 
of  the  English  language.  Dr.  Johnson  was  a  leader  of  the  learned 
men  of  his  time. 

11  Francis  Burney  D'Arblay  (1752-1840).  An  English  novelist, 
author  of  Evelina,  and  a  friend  of  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson.  Her  Letters 
and  Diary  give  an  intimate  account  of  her  entire  life. 

"Henry  Crabbe  Robinson  (1775-1867).  An  English  war-correspondent 
and  social  leader.  His  Diary  gives  intimate  information  concerning  the 
great  men  of  his  time,  with  nearly  all  of  whom  he  was  personally 
acquainted. 

"Blackfriars  and  the  Globe.  London  theaters  in  which  Shakespeare's 
plays  were  first  produced. 


THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS  223 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  Why  does  the  writer  of  an  essay  need  a  desk  and  a  library? 

2.  Explain  the  figure  of  speech  that  compares  an  essay  with  some- 

thing that  cooks  slowly. 

3.  Why  must  essays  be  written  slowly? 

4.  Why  does  an  essayist  make  great  use  of  books'? 

5.  Why  does  an  essayist  keep  a  note-book? 

6.  Why  is  an  essayist  "modest  with  his  own  thoughts  and  tolerant 

of  others"? 

7.  Why  does  the  essayist  enjoy  the  little  things  of  life? 

8.  What  is  meant  by  "mending  small  habits  here  and  there"? 

9.  In  what  ways  are  many  books  of  biography  like  essays? 

10.  Prove  that  Mr.  Brooks'  article  is  an  essay. 

11.  Point  out  unusual  expressions,  or  striking  sentences. 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 


The  Writing  of  School  Com-     11.  A  Clerk  in  a  Store 

positions  12.  A  Teacher  of  Chemistry 


2.  The  Preparation  of  a  Debate  13.  Preparing  an  Experiment 

3.  The  Writing  of  Letters  14.  The  Work  of  a  Book  Agent 

4.  A  Pupil  in  School  15.  Buying  a  Dress 

5.  The  Work  of  a  Blacksmith  16.  Selecting  a  New  Hat 

6.  The  Leader  of  an  Orchestra  17.  Being  Photographed 

7.  The  Cheer-Leader  at  a  Game  18.  The  Senior 

8.  Memorizing  a  Speech  19.  The  Freshman 

9.  The  Janitor  of  a  School  20.  The  Alumnus 
10.  The  Editor  of  a  Paper 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

Your  aim  is  to  write  an  essay  in  imitation  of  the  one  written  by 
Mr.  Brooks.  Read  Mr.  Brooks'  essay  so  carefully  that  you  will 
know  just  what  to  imitate. 

Notice  how  easily  and  how  pleasantly  Mr.  Brooks  writes,  and 
especially  how  he  makes  use  of  figurative  language  rather  than  of 
direct  statement.  Then,  too,  he  uses  some  very  striking  expressions, 
such  as  "He  desires  neither  typhoon  nor  tempest,"  and  "He  paints 
old  thoughts  in  shiny  varnish."  At  the  same  time  he  uses  common 
expressions  now  and  then,  as  if  to  give  a  touch  of  familiarity  or  of 
humor, — "He  flaps  to  no  great  heights,"  "He  mends  small  habits/8 


224  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

"Who  still  sat  in  chimney  corners  and  babbled  through  their  tooth- 
less gums."  With  it  all,  he  gives  a  clear  conception  of  the  essayist 
and  his  work. 

Try  to  imitate  all  this  in  your  own  writing.  Avoid  being  stiff 
and  formal,  and  try  to  write  easily,  familiarly,  originally,  and  with 
dignity.  Remember  that  your  aim  is  to  give  pleasure  rather  than 
information. 


THE  RHYTHM  OF  PROSE 

By  ABRAM  LIPSKY 

(1872-  ).  A  teacher  in  the  high  schools  of  the  City 
of  New  York.  Among  his  worlcs  is  a  volume  entitled  ' '  Old 
Testament  Heroes."    Dr.  Lipshy  writes  for  many  publications. 

The  Bhytlim  of  Prose  is  a  meditation  on  the  music  of  language,  on 
the  "tune"  that  accompanies  thought.  The  essay  is  not  severe  and 
formal, — as  it  would  be  if  it  were  a  treatise  on  prose  rhythm, — but  is 
easy-going  and  almost  conversational.  It  is  an  interesting  example  of 
the  didactic  type  of  essay. 

"Good  prose  is  rhythmical  because  thought  is:  and  thought  is 
rhythmical  because  it  is  always  going  somewhere,  sometimes  strolling, 
sometimes  marching,  sometimes  dancing. 


>  > 


The  rhythm  of  prose  is  inseparable  from  its  sense.  This 
sense-rhythm  is  abetted  and  supported  by  the  mechanical 
rhythm  of  syllables,  but  its  larger  outlines  are  staked  out  by 
tones  of  interrogation,  by  outcries,  expostulations,  threats, 
entreaties,  resolves,  by  the  tones  of  a  multitude  of  emotions. 
These  are  heard  as  interior  voices,  and  have  their  accom- 
paniment of  peculiar  bodily  motions,  such  as  gritting  of 
teeth,  holding  of  breath,  clenching  of  fists,  tensions,  and  re- 
laxations of  numberless  obscure  muscles.  All  the  organs  of 
the  body  compose  the  orchestra  that  plays  the  rhythm  of 
prose,  which  is  not  only  a  rhythm,  but  a  tune.  In  short,  the 
really  important  sort  of  rhythm  in  prose  is  that  of  phrase, 
clause,  and  sentence,  and  this  rhythm  is  marked  not  merely 
by  stresses,  but  by  tones,  which  are  of  as  great  variety  as  the 
modes  of  putting  a  proposition,  dogmatic,  hypothetical,  im- 
perative, persuasive ;  or  as  the  emotional  tone  of  thought, 
solemn,  jubilant,  placid,  mysterious. 

Good  prose  is  rhythmical  because  thought  is ;  and  thought 
i&  rhythmical  because  it  is  always  going  somewhere,  some- 

225 


226  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

times  strolling,  sometimes  marching,  sometimes  dancing. 
Types  of  thought  have  their  characteristic  rhythms,  and  a 
resemblance  is  discernible  between  these  and  types  of  dancing. 
Note,  for  example,  the  Oriental  undulation  of  De  Quincey,1 
the  sprightly  two-stepping  of  Stevenson,2  the  placid  glide  of 
Howells,3  the  march  of  Gibbon.4  A  man  who  wishes  to  put  the 
accent  of  moral  authority  into  his  style  writes  in  a  senten- 
tious, staccato  rhythm.  One  who  would  appear  profound 
adopts  the  voluminous,  long-winded  German  period.  The 
apocalyptic  spirit  manifests  itself  in  a  buoyant,  shouting, 
leaping  rhythm.  Meditative  calmness  adopts  the  gliding 
movement  that  suggests  the  waltz. 

Now,  why  do  we  become  uneasy  the  moment  we  suspect  a 
writer  of  aiming  at  musical  effects?  It  is  because  we  know 
instinctively  that  every  thought  creates  its  own  rhythm,  and 
that  when  a  writer's  attention  is  upon  his  rhythm,  he  is  bent 
upon  something  else  than  his  thought  processes.  The  only 
way  of  giving  the  impression  of  thought  that  is  not  original 
or  spontaneous  is  by  imitating  the  rhythm  of  that  thought. 
For  real  meanings  cannot  be  borrowed.  They  are  always 
new.  Heal  thought  is  an  action,  an  original  adventure.  Xt 
pulsates,  and  the  body  pulsates  with  it.  No  writer  can  pro- 
duce this  sense  of  original  adventure  in  us  unless  he  has  it 
himself. 

The  various  classes  of  writers  and  talkers  whose  business 
it  is  to  sway  the  minds  of  others  understand  as  well  as  the 
medicine-man  in  the  primitive  tribe  the  part  that  rhythm 
plays  in  their  work.  The  rhythm  of  each  is  characteristic. 
The  swelling,  pompous  senatorial  style  that  suggests  the 
weight  of  nations  behind  the  speaker  is  familiar. 


1  Thomas  de  Quincey  (1785-1859).  A  celebrated  English  essayist,  noted 
for  the  poetic  beauty  of  his  prose  style. 

2  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  (1850-1894).  A  great  modern  novelist  and 
essayist  whose  style  has  both  vigor  and  beauty  of  rhythm. 

'William  Dean  Howells  (1837-1920).  A  modern  realistic  novelist  and 
literary  critic  who  wrote  in  a  serene  and  quiet  style. 

4  Edward  Gibbon  (1737-1794).  A  great  English  historian,  author  of 
The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire.  His  style  is  stately  and 
impressive,  as  befits  a  great  subject. 


THE  RHYTHM  OF  PROSE  227 

I  admit  that  there  is  an  ultimate  violent  remedy,  above  the  Consti- 
tution and  in  defiance  of  the  Constitution,  which  may  be  resorted  to 
when  a  revolution  is  to  be  justified.  But  I  do  not  admit  that,  under 
the  Constitution  and  in  conformity  with  it,  thert  is  any  mode  in  which 
a  state  government,  as  a  member  of  the  Union,  can  interfere  and  stop 
the  progress  of  the  general  Government  by  force  of  her  own  laws  under 
any  circumstances  whatever. 

Rhythm  of  this  sort  is  not  a  matter  of  accented  and  un- 
accented syllables,  but  of  length  of  phrase  and  suspension  of 
voice  as  it  gathers  volume  and  momentum  to  break  finally  in 
an  overwhelming  roar. 

Then  there  is  the  suave,  insinuating  clerical  style  that  lulls 
opposition  and  penetrates  the  conscience  of  the  listener  with 
its  smooth,  unhalting  naivete. 

How  many  of  us  feel  that  those  who  have  committed  grave  outward 
transgressions  into  which  we  have  not  fallen  because  the  motives  to 
them  were  not  present  with  us,  or  because  God's  grace  kept  us  hedged 
round  by  influences  which  resisted  them — may  nevertheless  have  had 
hearts  which  answered  more  to  God 's  heart,  which  entered  far  more  into 
the  grief  and  joy  of  His  Spirit,  than  ours  ever  did. 

Or,  if  the  preacher  is  of  the  apocalyptic  variety,  we  get 
the  explosive  shocks,  the  hammer-blows,  and  the  thunderous 
reverberations. 

Ah,  no,  this  deep-hearted  son  of  the  wilderness  with  his  burning  black 
eyes  and  open,  social,  deep  soul,  had  other  thoughts  in  him  than  am- 
bition. .  .  .  The  great  mystery  of  existence,  as  I  said,  glared  in  upon 
him,  with  its  terrors,  with  its  splendors;  no  hear-says  could  hide  that 
unspeakable  fact,  ' '  Here  am  I. 


j  j 


Editorial  omniscience  clothes  itself  in  a  martial  array  of 
unwavering  units.  There  is  no  quickening  or  slackening  in 
their  irresistible  advance.  There  is  no  weakening  in  their 
ranks,  nor  are  they  subject  to  sudden  accessions  of  strength. 
All  is  as  it  was  in  the  beginning,  perfect  wisdom  without 
flaw. 

All  this  is  in  prose  what  conventional  meter  is  in  verse. 
The  writer  sets  himself  a  tune,  which  he  follows.  The  politi- 
cal orator,  the  preacher,  the  editorial  writer,  the  philosopher, 
the  rhapsodist,  knows  that  his  writing  acquires  prestige  from 
the  class  wisdom  whose  rhythm  he  chants.     The  reader  who 


228  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STOKlEb 

does  not  examine  the  thought  too  critically,  but  who  recog- 
nizes the  rhythm,  is  satisfied  with  the  writer's  credentials 
and  bolts  the  who  e  piece.  The  reverence  the  average  man 
has  for  print  is  largely  due  to  the  hypnotizing  effect  of  its 
rhythm. 

What  we  find  intolerable  is  the  setting  of  the  tune  at  the 
start  and  the  grinding  it  out  to  the  end.  In  revenge  the  read- 
ing world  consigns  the  much-vaunted  Sir  Thomas  Browne 's 5 
"Urn  Burial,"  De  Quincey's  "Levana,"6  and  Pater's7 
famous  purple  patch  about  Mona  Lisa  to  the  rhetorical 
museums;  but  it  never  ceases  to  read  "Robinson  Crusoe,"8 
"Pilgrim's  Progress,"8  and  "Gulliver's  Travels,"8  and  it 
devours  G.  B.  Shaw  9  with  delight. 


SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  Explain  just  how  prose  rhythms  aid  in  communicating  thought 

2.  Show  that  it  is   perfectly  natural  to  adapt   prose  rhythm  tc 

thought. 

3.  "What  honesty  of  style  does  the  writer  demand? 

4.  Why  is  an  artificial  rhythm  unsuccessful? 

5.  Why  is  a  continued  rhythm  unsuccessful? 

6.  What  sort  of  prose  rhythm  does  Dr.  Lipsky  advocate? 

7.  Point  out  figurative  language  in  the  essay?     Why  is  it  used? 

What  effect  does  it  produce? 

8.  Point  out   conversational  expressions  in  the  essay.     Why  are 

they  used?    What  effects  do  they  produce? 

9.  What   advantage   is   gained   by   making   references   to    various 

authors  ? 
10.  Why  does  the  writer  quote  from  several  authors? 

BSir  Thomas  Browne  (1605-1682).  A  writer  of  essay -like  books  that 
are  notable  because  of  unusual  beauty  of  phrasing  and  rich  suggestive- 
ness  of  expression. 

0  Levana.     One  of  the  most  poetic  of  Thomas  De  Quincey  's  essays. 

'Walter  Pater  (1839-1894).  An  English  essayist  noted  for  the-  rich- 
ness of  his  prose  style. 

9 Robinson  Crusoe,  by  Daniel  Defoe  (1661-1731),  and  Pilgrim'3 
Progress,  by  John  Bunyan  (1628-1688),  are  both  written  in  plain, 
unaffected  style. 

8  George  Bernard  Shaw  (1856 — ).  A  present-day  dramatist  and  critic 
who  adapts  his  style  to  his  thought. 


THE  EHYTHM  OF  PEOSE 


229 


SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 


1.  Public  Speaking 

2.  Tone  in  Conversation 

3.  Selling  Goods 

4.  Style  in  Letter  Writing 

5.  The  Art  of  Advertising 

6.  Coaching  a  Team 

7.  Style  in  Debating 

8.  The  Best  Graduation  Oration 

9.  Newspaper  Articles 
10.  School  Compositions 


11.  Stories  in  School  Papers 

12.  School  Editorial  Articles 

13.  Written  Translations 

14.  Laboratory  Note  Books 

15.  The  Sort  of  Novel  I  Like 

16.  Good  Preaching 

17.  Interesting  Lectures 

18.  Directions 

19.  Good  Teaching 

20.  Useful  Text  Books 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

Think  of  a  thesis,  or  statement,  in  which  you  believe  strongly. 
Explain,  first  of  all,  that  it  is  entirely  natural  for  any  one  to  act  in 
accordance  with  your  thesis.  Illustrate  your  thought  by  making 
definite  references  to  well-known  characteristics,  and  by  making  apx 
quotations.  End  your  work  by  writing  a  paragraph  that  will  corre- 
spond with  the  last  paragraph  of  Dr.  Lipsky's  essay. 


THE  EEALISTIC  STORY 
THE   CHINAMAN'S  HEAD 

By  WILLIAM  EOSE  BENET 

(1886).  Formerly  with  Century  Magazine,  and  at  present 
associate  editor  of  The  Literary  Eeview.  Contributor,  par- 
ticularly of  poems  and  humorous  verse,  to  many  magazines. 
He  is  the  author  of  Merchants  from  Cathay;  The  Falconer  of 
God;  The  Great  White  Wall;  The  Burglar  of  the  Zodiac; 
Perpetual  Light  (memorial). 

Humor  depends  upon  incongruity,  exaggeration,  misunderstanding, 
ignorance,  the  unexpected,  and  the  use  of  the  absurd  in  a  thousand 
different   ways.     Humor   that   is   spontaneous   is   always   most   effective. 

A  good  humorous  story  is  realistic,  its  humor  apparently  created  from 
within,  by  the  characters,  rather  than  from  without,  by  the  author. 

The  Chinaman's  Head  is  an  example  of  the  simple,  humorous  story. 
It  gives  sufficient  character  indication  to  support  the  incongruity,  the 
misunderstanding,  and  the  unexpected  on  which  the  humor  of  the  story 
depends.     The  brevity  of  the  story  contributes  to  its  effect. 

There  must  be  oodles  of  money  in  it,  I  thought,  and  what 
a  delightful  existence,  just  one  complication  after  another.  I 
can  imagine  a  beginning:  "As  he  looked  more  nearly  at  the 
round  object  in  the  middle  of  the  sidewalk,  he  discovered  that 
it  was  the  completely  severed  head  of  a  Chinese  laundry- 
man."  There  you  have  it  at  once — mystery!  Gripping! 
Big !  Large !  In  fact,  immense !  Then  your  story  covers 
twenty-five  chapters,  in  which  you  unravel  why  it  was  a 
Chinese  laundryman  and  whose  Chinese  laundryman  it  was. 
Excellent!     I  shall  write  mystery  stories. 

I  lit  another  cigarette  and  sat  thinking  of  mystery.  Did 
you  ever  realize  this  about  mystery?  It  gets  more  and  more 
mysterious  the  more  you  think  of  it.  It  was  getting  too 
mysterious  for  me  already.  Just  then  my  wife  called  me  to 
lunch. 

"Did  you  ever  think,  my  dear,"  I  said  affably  as  I  un- 
folded my  napkin  and  the  roll  in  it  bounced  to  the  floor. 

230 


THE  CHINAMAN'S  HEAD  231 


They  always  do  with  me.  It  seems  a  rather  cheap  form  of 
amusement,  putting  rolls  in  napkins.  "Did  you  ever  think," 
I  said,  recovering  the  roll. 

"Oh,  often,"  said  my  wife. 

This  somewhat  disconcerted  me. 

"I  mean,"  I  said,  accidentally  ladling  the  cold  consomme 
into  my  tea-cup — "I  mean,  what  would  you  do  if  you  found 
a  Chinaman's  head  on  the  sidewalk?" 

"Step  on  it,"  said  my  wife,  promptly. 

It  was  quite  unexpected. 

"I  mean  seriously,"  I  said,  handing  her  my  tea-cup,  which 
she  refused. 

"I  am  quite  serious,"  said  my  wife;  "but  I  wish  you  would 
watch  what  you  are  doing." 

I  spent  the  next  few  minutes  doing  it. 

"I  am  thinking,"  I  said  gravely  over  my  cutlet,  "of  writ- 
ing mystery -stories. ' ' 

"That  will  be  quite  harmless,"  returned  the  woman  I  once 
loved  with  passion. 

I  ignored  her  tone. 

"The  mystery -story, "  I  said,  "is  a  money-maker.  Look 
at  'Sherlock  Holmes,'  and  look  at — well,  look  at  'Old  and 
Young  King  Brady'!" 

' '  All  those  dime  novels  are  written  by  the  same  man, ' '  said 
my  wife,  unemotionally. 

"Were,  my  dear.    I  believe  that  man  is  dead  now." 

"Then  it  's  his  brother,"  said  my  wife. 

"But  I  am  not  going  to  descend  to  the  dime  novel,"  I 
went  on.  "I  am  going  to  write  the  higher  type  of  mystery- 
story.  My  first  story  will  concern  the  Oriental  of  whom  I 
have  spoken.  It  will  be  called  'The  Chinaman's  Head.' 
Don't  you  think  it  a  good  idea?" 

"But  that  isn't  all  of  it?"  the  rainbow  fancy  of  my  lost 
youth  questioned,  at  the  same  time  making  a  long  arm  for 
the  olives. 

"Of  course  not.  There  are  innumerable  complications. 
They — er — they  complicate — ' ' 

"Such  as?" 


232  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

"Of  course,"  I  said,  "I  conceived  this  idea  just  before 
lunch.  I  have  had  no  time  as  yet  to  work  out  the  mere 
detail." 

' '  Oh, ' '  said  my  lifelong  penance,  chewing  an  end  of  celery. 

But  after  lunch  I  sat  down  at  my  desk  and  began  to  con- 
centrate upon  my  complications.  I  wrote  down  some  names 
of  characters  that  occurred  to  me,  and  put  them  into  a  hat. 
Then  I  took  them  out  of  the  hat  and  wrote  after  them  the 
type  of  person  that  belonged  to  the  name.  Then  I  put  them 
into  the  hat  again,  shook  the  hat,  and  drew  them  out.  This 
is  entirely  my  own  invention  in  writing  a  mystery-story.  The 
first  name  that  came  out  was  that  of  "Rudolph  Habakkuk, 
soap  manufacturer." 

It  was  an  excellent  beginning.  I  was  immediately  inter- 
ested in  the  story.    I  began  it  at  once. 

"  'Ha!'  exclaimed  Rudolph  Habakkuk,  soap  manufacturer, 
starting  violently  at  what  he  saw  before  him  upon  the  broad 
pavements  of  Fifth  Avenue.  The  round,  yellow  object  glis- 
tened in  the  oblique  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun.  It  was  a 
Chinaman's  head!" 

I  thought  it  excellent,  pithy,  precise.  Scene,  the  whole 
character  of  one  of  the  principal  figures  in  the  story,  the  crux 
of  the  mystery — all  at  a  glance,  as  it  were.  And  what  more 
revealing  than  that  simple,  yet  complete,  designation,  soap 
manufacturer !  I  could  n  't  resist  going  into  the  next  room 
and  reading  it  to  my  wife.    I  said : 

"Doesn't  it  arouse  your  curiosity?" 

"Yes,"  said  my  wife,  biting  off  a  thread.  "But  how  did  it 
get  there?" 

1 '  What  ?    The  Chinaman 's  head  ?   Oh,  that  is  the  mystery. " 

"I  should  say  it  was,"  said  my  wife  to  herself. 

I  left  the  begrudging  woman  and  returned  to  my  study.  I 
sat  down  to  think  about  how  it  got  there.  I  thought  almost 
an  hour  about  how  it  got  there.  Do  you  know,  it  quite  eluded 
me  ?  I  took  my  hat  and  overcoat  and  went  down  the  street  to 
talk  to  Theodore  Rowe,  who  is  an  author  of  sorts. 

"Let  's  hear  your  plot,"  said  Theodore,  giving  me  a  ciga- 
rette and  a  cocktail. 


THE  CHINAMAN'S  HEAD  233 

"Well,"  I  started  off  immediately,  with  decision,  "you  see, 
this  Rudolph  Habakkuk  is  a  wealthy  soap  manufacturer.  On 
Christmas  day,  when  he  is  walking  down  Fifth  Avenue,  he  is 
arres-ted — " 

"Ah,"  said  Theodore.  "Arson,  or  just  for  being  a  soap 
manufacturer  ? ' ' 

"I  did  not  think  you  would  interrupt,"  I  said  solemnly. 
"He  is  arrested  by  a  Chinaman's  head." 

1 '  Really, ' '  said  Theodore,  ' '  don 't  you  think  that  's  drawing 
the  long  bow  a  bit?  Is  it  'Alice  in  Wonderland'  or  a  ghost- 
story?" 

"He  sees  it  on  the  pavement,"  I  pursued  as  well  as  I 
could.  "It  is  entirely  cut  off.  I  mean  it  is  decapitated,  you 
know.    The  head  is  decapitated." 

"Yes,"  answered  Theodore,  slowly,  "I  see.  It  would  be, 
Heads  get  that  way." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

' '  I  have  n  't  heard  the  story  yet, ' '  remarked  Theo- 
dore. 

"Oh,"  I  replied  a  trifle  impatiently,  I  am  afraid.  "But 
that  is  the  idea.  The  details  are  to  be  worked  out  later. 
Don't  you  think  it  's  a  striking  idea?" 

"I  should  say  so,"  said  Theodore,  rising;  "almost  too 
striking.  Have  another  cocktail.  They  're  good  for  what 
ails  you." 

"Thanks,"  I  said.  "But,  you  see,  the  fact  is  I  have  got  a 
bit — er — perplexed  about  how  to  explain  the  appearance  of 
the  head.    Possibly  you  could  suggest  ? ' ' 

"We-11,"  said  Theodore,  pursing  his  lips  in  deep  thought, 
"let  me  see.  Have  you  thought  of  the  Chinaman  being  in  a 
manhole?  Only  his  head  showing,  you  know."  He  turned 
his  back  on  me  and  drew  out  his  handkerchief.  He  seemed 
to  have  a  very  bad  cold. 

"No,"  I  said  emphatically,  "this  is  a  severed  head." 

"It  might  have  been  dropped  from  a  ballooo — achool" 
gargled  Theodore,  his  back  still  turned. 

"Really,  Theodore,"  I  said,  rising,  "thank  you  for  the 
drinks,  but  I  must  say  your  mind  doesn't  seem  to  fire  to  a 


234  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

true  mystery-story.  I  must  have  something  better  than  that. 
I  shall  have  to  find  it." 

As  I  was  going  down  the  front  steps,  Theodore  Opened  the 
door. 

"Oh,  Tuffin,"  he  called  after  me,  "how  did  he  know  it  was 
a  Chinaman?" 

"By  the  queue  wound  round  the  neck,"  I  called  back.  It 
was  rather  good  for  an  impromptu,  I  think.  "The  man  had 
been  murdered." 

I  then  found  myself  colliding  with  a  policeman.  He 
looked  after  me  suspiciously. 

My  wife  reminded  me  that  we  were  to  dine  at  the  Royles's 
that  night.  As  I  dressed  I  was  still  turning  over  in  my  mind 
the  unlimited  possibilities  of  my  first  mystery-story.  I  could 
see  the  colored  jackets  of  the  book,  the  publisher's  announce- 
ments, other  volumes  in  the  same  series,  "The  Musical 
Fingerbowls, "  "The  Pink  Emerald,"  "The  Green  Samovar," 
"The  Purple  Umbrella."  Imagination  flamed.  My  wife  said 
she  had  called  me  three  times,  but  I  know  it  was  only  once. 

I  had  expected  it  to  be  rather  a  dull  dinner  party,  but 
really  Mrs.  Revis  quite  brightened  it  for  me.  She  was  im- 
mediately interested  in  my  becoming  an  author,  and  she  began 
to  talk  about  Dostoyevsky. 

"Well,  you  know — just  at  first,"  I  rejoined  in  modest 
deprecation  of  my  own  talents. 

"And  tell  me  your  first  story.  What  is  it  to  be?"  She 
leaned  toward  me  with  large  and  shining  eyes.  I  had  a 
moment  of  wishing  the  title  were  not  quite  so  sensational. 

"It  is  to  be  called  'The  Chinaman's  Head,'  "  I  said,  hasten- 
ing to  add,  "You  see,  it  is  a  very  deep  mystery-story." 

"A-ah,  mystery!"  said  Mrs.  Revis,  clasping  her  beautiful 
hands  and  gazing  upward.     ' '  I  adoi'e  mystery ! ' ' 

"The  plot  is,"  I  said — "well,  you  see,  there  is  a  soap 
manufacturer — ' ' 

"A-ah,  soup!"  softly  moaned  Mrs.  Revis,  gazing  at  hers. 

"No;  soap,"  7  said.  "The  soap  manufacturer  is  walking 
along  Fifth  Avenue — " 


THE  CHINAMAN'S  HEAD  235 

"They  really  shouldn't  allow  them,"  exclaimed  my  con- 
fidante. 

"Yes,  but  he  is — and — and  he  sees  a  Chinaman's  head." 

"Where?" 

"A-ah,"  I  said,  "that  is  the  touch — a  severed  head  at  his 
feet!" 

Her  dismay  was  pleasing.  I  had  aroused  her.  She  choked 
over  her  soup. 

' '  Tell  me  more ! ' '  she  gasped. 

"Certainly,"  I  said.    "The — the  way  it  got  there — " 

"What  an  infernal  thing  a  mystery-story  is!  How  should 
I  know  how  it  got  there !  Is  n  't  the  effect  enough  ?  Some  day 
I  shall  write  a  story  entirely  composed  of  effects. 

As  I  drew  our  Ford  up  at  our  door,  my  wife  suddenly 
turned  to  me. 

"It  isn't  late,  George,  and  Sam  Lee  is  just  down  at  the 
corner.  He  should  have  brought  the  laundry  this  afternoon. 
I  entirely  forgot  about  it,  and  to-morrow  's  Sunday." 

"But  surely  they  close  up." 

' '  Oh,  no ;  he  '11  be  open.  Maida  went  for  it  two  Saturdays 
ago  at  about  this  time.  They  work  all  night,  you  know. 
Please,  George!" 

"Oh,  all  right,"  I  said  resignedly.  I  jogged  and  pulled 
things  and  ambled  down  the  block.  Sure  enough,  the  laundry 
was  still  lighted  and  doing  business.  It  always  smells  of 
lychee-nuts  and  bird's  nest  soup  inside.  The  black-haired 
yellow  boy  grinned  at  me.    "How  do!" 

I  explained  my  errand  and  secured  the  large  parcel.  Sud- 
denly a  thought  occurred  to  me.  The  very  thing!  These 
Orientals  were  full  of  subtlety.    I  would  put  it  to  him. 

"John,"  I  said  impressively,  "listen!"  His  name  was 
Sam,  but  I  always  call  them  John. 

He  listened  attentively,  watching  me  with  beady  black 
eyes. 

"John,"  I  said,  "what  would  you  do  if  your  head — no;  I 
mean — what  would  you  do  if  a  soap  manufacturer — no;  per- 
haps we  had  better  get  at  it  this  way.  If  a  Chinaman's  head 
was  cut  off — see  what  I  mean?"     I  leaned  forward  and 


236  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

indicated  by  an  appropriate  and  time-honored  gesture  the 
process  of  decapitation.  John — I  mean  Sam — took  two  steps 
hastily  backward,  and  his  eyes  became  pin-points.  He  jab- 
bered something  at  his  friend  in  the  rear  room. 

"Now,  John — I  mean  Sam,"  I  said  mollifyingly,  "don't 
be  foolish.    Just  come  back  nearer — " 

"That  '11  be  all  of  that  shenanigan,"  said  a  very  Irish 
voice  behind  me.  I  turned,  and  saw  the  policeman  with 
whom  I  had  so  nearly  collided  that  afternoon. 

"That  '11  be  all,  I  say,"  remarked  Roundsman  Reardon,  as 
I  afterward  found  his  name  to  be.  "Sur-r,  ain't  yees 
ashamed  of  yerself,  scarin'  the  likes  o'  these  Chinks  into  the 
fright  o'  their  shadow?"  He  leveled  a  large,  pudgy  finger 
at  me.  "An'  I  hear-rd  ye  this  afternoon.  I  seen  ye  an'  I 
hear-rd  ye.  An '  ye  may  be  thankful  I  know  ye  by  repitation 
to  be  har-rmless.  But  ye  '11  come  with  me  quiet,  an'  I  '11 
escar-rt  ye  back  to  yer  own  house,  an'  leave  the  wife  to  put 
ye  to  bed.  Ain't  ye  ashamed  to  be  drinkin'  this  way  an' 
makin'  a  sneak  with  the  la'ndry  without  payin',  by  hopes  of 
frightenin' — " 

' '  That  is  not  true, ' '  I  answered  hotly,  for  my  blood  was  up. 
"I  intend  to  pay.     I  had  forgotten." 

"Ye  had  forgotten,"  said  Reardon,  a  whit  contemptuously. 
"An'  ye  was  askin'  the  China  boy  how  he  w'u'd  like  to  be 
murthered ! ' ' 

"I  will  explain  to  you,  Officer,"  I  said  in  the  street.  "I 
am  writing  a  story.  I  was  merely  seeking  a  native  impres- 
sion. ' ' 

"That  '11  be  as  it  may  be,"  said  Reardon.  "Ye  give  me 
the  impression — " 

"Suppose  you  had  your  head  cut  off — "  I  began  affably 
enough.    But  I  got  no  further. 

"It  is  as  I  thought,"  said  Reardon,  gloomily.  He  got  in 
beside  me,  and  he  helped  me  out  at  my  own  house,  though  I 
needed  absolutely  no  assistance.  He  seemed  to  want  to  give 
me  a  bit  of  advice. 

"Lay  off  the  stuff,  sur-r,"  he  said  ponderously.  "An'  ye 
wid  the  fine  wife  you  have!"    He  shook  his  head  a  number 


(A-ah,  mystery!'"  said  Mrs.  Revis,  clasping  her  beautiful  hands 
and  gazing  upward.     "'I  adore  mystery!"       (page  234) 


THE  CHINAMAN'S  HEAD  237 

of  times,  glanced  with  sad  resignation  at  my  wife  as  she  led 
me  in,  and  departed,  still  shaking  his  head.  I  can't  tell  you 
how  all  that  head-shaking  annoyed  me. 

I  started  awake  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  It  was  un- 
believably excellent. 

"Jane!"  I  said  to  my  wife,  "Jane,  it  's  wonderful.  It  's 
come  to  me!" 

But  Jane  did  not  answer. 

"Jane,"  I  said  happily,  "you  see,  the  Chinaman's  head — " 

"If  you  say  Chinaman  to  me  again,"  returned  my  wife, 
sleepily,  "I  '11  leave  you.  There  are  six  pieces  missing  from 
that  laundry." 

And  she  never  knew. 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  What  is  the  character  of  the  speaker?    How  does  the  speaker's 

personality  contribute  to  the  humor  of  the  story? 

2.  What  sort  of  story  did  he  contemplate  writing? 

3.  What  is  the  character  of  the  speaker's  wife?     How  does  her 

personality  contribute  to  the  humor  of  the  story? 

4.  What  gives  humor  to  Theodore's  remarks? 

5.  Why  is  the  incident  of  meeting  the  policeman  mentioned  early 

in  the  story? 

6.  What  gives  humor  to  Mrs.  Revis's  remarks? 

7.  What  misunderstandings  give  humor  to  the  story? 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 

1.  Adventures   of  an   Amateur    11.  Conducting  a  Meeting 

Detective  12.  Making  an  Excuse 

2.  Going  on  My  Travels  13.  Cooking  Experiences 

3.  Reading  Aloud  at  Home  14.  Housecleaning 

4.  A  Mysterious  Package  15.  Buying  a  Dress 

5.  The  Lost  Dog  16.  Speaking    a    Foreign    Lan- 

6.  My  Pet  Snakes  guage 

7.  Writing  a  Composition  17.  My  First  Speech 

8.  Graduation  18.  Little  Brother 

9.  Being  an  Editor  19.  Being  Careful 

10.  Doing  an  Errand  20.  My  Letter  Writing 


238  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STOEIES 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

Found  your  story  on  some  actual  interest  that  you  have.  Write 
in  the  "first  person,  as  realistically  as  possible.  Do  not  over-use 
exaggeration,  but  make  your  story  unusual.  You  will  gain  the 
best  effects  if  you  base  your  humor  on  natural  misunderstanding, 
and  on  remarks  or  events  that  are  incongruous.  Confine  your  story 
to  two  or  three  principal  incidents,  and  bring  the  narrative  to  a 
natural  conclusion  that  will  give  the  effect  of  climax. 


GETTING  UP  TO  DATE 

By  KOBEBTA  WAYNE 
An  American  short  story  writer  and  contributor  to  magazines. 

A  realistic  story  differs  from  a  romantic  story  in  that  it  concerns  the 
events  of  ordinary  life.  Its  characters  are  the  people  whom  we  know, — 
those  who  move  about  us  in  daily  life.  Its  plot  centers  around  everyday 
events.  Naturally  a  realistic  story  depends  largely  upon  character 
interest. 

Getting  Up  To  Date  concerns  such  a  simple  thing  as  storekeeping,  and 
the  methods  of  attracting  customers.  Job  Lansing,  in  the  story,  rep- 
resents the  type  of  person  who  clings  to  old  ways.  His  niece,  Lllie, 
represents  the  spirit  of  youth  and  progress, — the  spirit  of  adaptability. 

The  simplicity  and  familiarity  of  such  a  story  is  just  as  interesting 
as  is  wild  adventure  in  the  most  vivid  romance. 

Old  Job  Lansing  stood,  hatchet  in  hand,  and  stared  down 
into  the  big  packing-case  that  he  had  just  opened. 

' '  El-lee, ' '  he  called,  ' '  come  here  quick. ' '  And  as  footsteps 
were  heard  and  the  shutting  of  a  door,  he  continued: 
"They  've  sent  the  wrong  stuff.  This  isn't  what  we  or- 
dered!" 

The  girl  buried  her  head  in  the  box  from  which  she  brought 
forth  bolt  after  bolt  of  dress  goods,  voiles  with  gay  colors, 
dainty  organdies,  and  ginghams  in  pretty  checks  and  plaids. 
As  she  rose,  her  eyes  glowed  and  instinctively  she  straight- 
ened her  shoulders.  "Yes,  Uncle,  it  is  what  we  ordered.  I 
sent  for  this!" 

"You  did!"    The  old  man  trembled  with  rage. 

"But,  Uncle,  they  're  so  pretty  and  I  think — " 

' '  You  can  think  and  think  as  much  as  you  please,  but  those 
goods  will  never  sell.  They  '11  just  lie  on  the  shelves.  You 
may  think  they  're  pretty,  but  an  Injin  won't  buy  a  yard  of 
'em,  and  it  's  In j ins  we  're  trading  with." 

"But  there  's  no  reason  why  the  squaws  shouldn't  buy 

239 


240  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

pretty  dresses  instead  of  ugly  calico.  There  's  more  money 
in  this,  and  it  's  a  pleasure  to  sell  such  dainty  stuff.  Besides, 
we  can  sell  to  the  white  people.    There  's  Mrs.  Matthews — " 

"I  've  heard  all  your  arguments  before,  and  I  tell  you, 
you  '11  never  sell  it." 

Old  Job  had  never  married.  For  many  years  he  had  lived 
alone  in  the  rooms  behind  his  store,  and  he  had  become  self- 
centered  and  a  bit  fussy  and  intolerant.  If  he  had  realized 
how  much  his  life  was  to  be  upset,  he  could  never  have 
brought  himself  to  offer  his  widowed  sister  and  her  family 
a  home ;  for  he  valued  his  quiet  life,  and,  above  all,  he  wanted 
to  do  things  in  his  own  way. 

He  was  never  at  ease  with  the  two  nephews,  who  soon  left 
to  make  their  own  way  in  the  world. 

But  with  Ellie  it  was  different.  Her  affectionate  wajs 
won  Job's  heart.  They  were  chums,  often  going  together  on 
long  horseback  rides  to  distant  peaks  that  looked  inviting. 
And  as  the  girl  developed,  he  loved  to  have  her  with  him  as 
he  worked  and  he  was  delighted  at  her  interest  in  everything 
in  the  little  store.  She  even  learned  the  prices  of  the  goods 
and  helped  him. 

Old  Job  had  kept  this  store  at  the  "summit"  for  thirty 
years,  and  he  was  sure  he  knew  every  side  of  the  business. 
As  long  as  he  kept  a  good  supply  of  beans  and  flour,  that 
was  all  that  was  necessary.  A  good-sized  Indian  village  lay 
down  the  creek  about  a  mile,  and  it  was  from  this  settlement 
that  Job  Lansing  got  most  of  his  trade. 

The  old  man  had  come  to  the  age  when  he  lived  mostly  in 
the  past.  He  liked  to  talk  of  the  ' '  glorious ' '  days.  ' '  Things 
were  lively  around  here  then,"  he  used  to  say.  "Why,  for 
every  dollar's  worth  I  sell  now,  then  I  used  to  sell  fifty 
dollars.    They  were  the  good  old  times ! ' ' 

"But  why?"  questioned  Ellie,  bringing  him  sharply  back 
to  the  present.  "There  are  a  lot  more  people  here  now  and 
we  should  do  better."  Then,  with  a  gesture  of  impatience, 
"Uncle,  there  's  no  sense  in  it.  We  've  got  to  get  up  to  date. 
I  don't  blame  Joe  and  Glenn  for  leaving.  There  's  no  future 
here." 


GETTING  UP  TO  DATE  241 

"Shucks!"  said  Job  Lansing.  "You  don't  know  what 
you  're  talking  about." 

But  Ellie  always  managed  to  have  the  last  word.  "I  'm 
going  to  do  something!    See  if  I  don't ! " 

And  she  had  done  it! 

For  weeks,  now,  Job  Lansing  had  been  quite  pleased  with 
her.  She  had  never  been  so  reasonable.  She  had  taken  a 
great  notion  to  cleaning  up  the  store.  Not  that  he  approved 
of  her  moving  the  goods  around ;  but  still,  it  was  a  woman 's 
way  to  be  everlastingly  fussing  about  with  a  dust-cloth.  You 
could  n  't  change  them. 

He  had  decided  that  this  new  interest  on  Ellie 's  part  came 
from  the  feeling  of  responsibility  he  had  put  upon  her  two 
months  before  when  he  had  been  called  to  Monmouth.  His 
old  mining  partner  was  ill  and  wanted  to  see  him.  Before  he 
went  he  gave  his  niece  a  few  directions  and  told  her  how  to 
make  up  the  order  for  goods,  that  had  to  go  out  the  next  day. 
He  rode  away  feeling  that  the  business  would  be  all  right  in 
her  hands. 

Now,  as  he  stormed  around  the  store,  he  realized  why  she 
had  taken  such  an  interest  in  the  arrangement  of  the  shelf 
space;  why  a  gap  had  been  left  in  a  prominent  place.  It 
was  for  this  silly  stuff  that  wouldn't  sell!  He  wanted  to 
send  it  back,  but,  as  it  had  been  ordered,  he  would  have  to 
pay  express  on  it  both  ways. 

Ellie  stood  her  ground,  a  determined  expression  in  her 
face.  She  unpacked  the  heavy  box  and  put  the  gay  organdies 
and  voiles  in  the  places  she  had  arranged  for  them.  One 
piece,  of  a  delicate  gray  with  small,  bright,  magenta  flowers 
in  it,  she  left  on  the  counter;  and  to  the  astonishment  of  the 
old  man,  she  let  a  length  of  the  dainty  goods  fall  in  graceful 
folds  over  a  box  placed  beneath  it. 

This  was  one  of  the  notions  she  had  brought  back  from 
Phoenix,  where  she  had  gone  on  a  spring  shopping  trip  with 
Mrs.  Matthews,  wife  of  the  superintendent  at  the  Golden 
Glow  mine.  How  she  had  enjoyed  that  day !  Her  eager  eyes 
noted  every  up-to-date  detail  in  the  big  stores  where  they 
shopped ;  but  to  her  surprise,  Mrs.  Matthews  had  bought  only 


242  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

such  things  as  they  might  easily  have  carried  in  her  uncle's 
store — plain,  but  pretty,  ginghams  for  the  Matthews  children, 
a  light-blue  organdie  for  herself,  a  box  of  writing-paper,  and 
a  string  of  beads  for  Julie's  birthday. 

Ellie's  pretty  little  head  was  at  once  filled  with  ideas  that 
coaxed  for  a  chance  to  become  solid  facts.  Her  uncle's  trip 
to  Monmouth  gave  her  an  opportunity,  and,  after  weeks  of 
waiting,  the  boxes  had  been  delivered  and  the  storm  had 
broken. 

When  they  closed  the  store  for  the  night,  Ellie  was  tired. 
She  was  not  so  sure  of  success  as  she  had  been.  But,  at  least, 
she  had  made  an  effort  to  improve  things.  How  she  longed 
for  her  mother,  absent  on  a  two  months'  visit  to  one  of  her 
sons! 

"With  the  morning  came  new  courage,  even  exhilaration, 
for  unconsciously  she  was  finding  joy  in  the  struggle;  not 
as  a  diversion  in  the  monotony  and  loneliness  of  her  life,  for 
Ellie  did  not  know  what  monotony  meant,  and  she  felt  herself 
rich  in  friends.    She  had  two. 

One  was  Louise  Prescott  at  Skyboro,  only  ten  miles  away, 
daughter  of  a  wealthy  ranchman.  They  often  visited  each 
other,  for  each  had  her  own  pony  and  was  free  to  come  and 
go  as  she  wished.  And  the  other  was  Juanita  Mercy,  down 
the  canon  in  the  opposite  direction.  Now,  for  the  last  two 
years,  Louise  had  been  away  at  school.  But  she  was  always 
thrilled  at  getting  back  to  the  mountains.  She  had  returned 
the  day  before,  and  Ellie  knew  that  early  the  next  morning 
she  would  be  loping  her  pony  over  the  steep  road  that  led  to 
the  little  mountain  store. 

And  it  was  when  Ellie  was  standing  guard  over  her  new 
goods,  fearing  that  her  uncle  might,  in  a  moment  of  anger, 
order  them  to  be  sent  back,  that  Louise  rode  up,  and,  throwing 
her  reins  forward  over  her  pony's  neck,  leaped  from  the 
saddle  and  rushed  into  the  store. 

"Oh,  Ellie!  it  's  good  to  get  back,  and  I  have  four  months 
of  vacation.  "Won 't  we  have  a  grand  time ! —  Why,  you  've 
been  fixing  up  the  store,  Mr.  Lansing ;  and  how  lovely  it  looks ! 
I  must  have  Mama  come  up  and  see  these  pretty  summer 


GETTING  UP  TO  DATE  243 

things."  Turning  again  to  Ellie,  she  threw  her  arms  around 
her  and  whispered:  "Come  on  out  and  sit  on  our  dear  old 
bluff.  I  just  can't  get  enough  of  the  hills  to-day,  and  I  want 
to  talk  and  talk  and  talk." 

But  it  was  not  Louise  who  did  the  talking  this  time.  While 
her  eyes  were  feasting  on  the  gorgeous  scenery  before  her,  the 
dim  trails  that  led  up  and  up  the  steep  mountain  on  the  other 
side  of  the  creek,  Ellie  unburdened  herself  of  her  troubles. 
She  told  how  she  had  ordered  the  goods  on  her  own  responsi- 
bility. 

"Why,  Ellie,  how  could  you  do  it?  I  'd  never  have  had 
the  courage ! ' ' 

"But  I  just  had  to,  Lou.  I  don't  want  to  leave  the  moun- 
tains, and  I  don't  want  to  be  poor  all  our  lives.  Uncle  's 
getting  old  and  set  in  his  ways,  and  he  can't  seem  to  see  that 
things  are  going  behind  all  the  time.  Dear  old  uncle !  He  's 
been  so  good  to  us !  And  now  I  'd  like  to  help  him.  I  'm  just 
trying  to  save  him  from  himself." 

"And  you  will.     I  think  it  's  fine!" 

' '  Yes,  it  's  fine,  if — if — if ! ' '  exploded  Ellie,  who  was  not 
quite  so  optimistic  as  she  had  been  in  the  morning.  Several 
Indian  women  had  come  into  the  store,  and  while  they  stared 
in  astonishment  at  the  pretty  goods  displayed  on  the  counter, 
they  had  gone  out  without  buying  anything. 

Job  Lansing  had  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  while  not  a 
word  had  escaped  him,  his  manner  had  said  emphatically, 
"I  told  you  so!" 

"But  where  is  there  any  if,  I  'd  like  to  know.  You  just 
have  to  sell  all  that  stuff  as  fast  as  you  can,  and  that  will 
show  him. ' ' 

' '  But  if  the  squaws  won 't  buy  ?  They  did  n  't  seem  wild 
about  it  this  morning." 

' '  Well,  you  're  not  dependent  on  the  squaws,  I  should  hope. 
I  'm  going  to  tell  Mother,  and  she  '11  come  up,  if  I  say  so, 
and  buy  a  lot  of  dresses." 

' '  Now,  Lou  Prescott,  don 't  you  dare !  That  will  spoil 
everything.  Uncle  would  say  it  was  charity.  You  see  we 
are  trading  with  squaws.    Don 't  laugh,  Louise !    I  must  make 


244  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

good!  1  just  must  I  But  how  am  I  going  to  make  those 
squaws  buy  what  I  want  them  to  buy  ?  If  Uncle  would  only 
plan  and  work  with  me,  I  know  we  could  make  a  success  of  it. 
But  he  won't!" 

"You  should  have  invested  in  beads,  reds  and  blues  and 
greens,  all  colors,  bright  as  you  could  get  them." 

"That  's  a  good  idea,  Lou.  I  '11  do  it.  But  they  can't  buy 
a  string  of  beads  without  buying  a  dress  to  match  it!  I  '11 
do  it,  Lou  Prescott!" 

An  hour  later,  when  they  returned  to  the  store,  Job  Lan- 
sing looked  up  from  the  counter,  his  face  wrathful.  He  had 
just  measured  off  six  yards  of  pink  organdie  and  was  doing 
it  up  in  a  package  for  Joe  Hoan's  daughter.  Job  Lansing 
hated  to  give  in.  He  had  tried  to  get  Lillie  Hoan  to  wait 
until  Ellie  returned,  but  she  had  insisted,  and  so  the  old  man 
was  the  first  to  sell  a  piece  of  the  pretty  goods.  He  did  it 
ungraciously. 

Ellie  and  Louise  stood  still  and  stared  at  each  other.  Then 
Ellie  whispered:  "It  's  a  good  omen.    I  'm  going  to  succeed." 

And  that  night  a  second  order  was  dispatched.  Job 
Lansing  made  no  objection,  but  he  did  not  ask  her  what  she 
had  sent  for. 

The  next  two  days  were  busy  ones  for  Ellie.  Her  uncle 
fretted  to  himself,  for  not  once  did  she  come  inside  the  store 
to  help  him.  Louise  came  each  day,  and  the  two  girls  spent 
their  time  in  Ellie 's  room,  where  the  rattling  sound  of  the 
old  sewing-machine  could  be  heard. 

But  on  the  third  day  Ellie  was  up  early  and  was  already 
dusting  out  the  store  when  her  uncle  entered.  It  was  Sat- 
urday, always  a  busy  day.  This  pleased  Job  Lansing.  "That 
girl  has  a  pile  of  good  sense  along  with  this  other  nonsense," 
he  said  to  himself  as  he  watched  her. 

About  nine  o'clock  Louise  arrived  and  entered  quickly, 
throwing  down  a  square  package.  "Here  they  are,  Ell.  He 
brought  them  last  night.  I  came  right  over  with  them,  but 
I  have  to  hurry  back.    They  are  beauties,  all  right." 

The  girls  disappeared  once  more  into  the  bedroom,  where 
they  could  be  heard  laughing  and  exclaiming. 


GETTING  UP  TO  DATE  245 

When  Ellie  emerged  no  one  would  have  known  her,  for 
the  little  cowhoy  girl  was  dressed  in  a  dainty  voile  with 
pink  blossoms  in  it,  and  around  her  neck  was  a  long  string 
of  pink  beads  that  matched  perfectly  the  flowers  in  her 
gown. 

Job  Lansing  started  as  if  he  were  going  to  speak,  then 
suppressed  the  words  and  went  on  with  his  work.  Ellie  tried 
to  act  as  if  everything  was  the  same  as  usual.  Selecting  some 
blues  and  pinks  and  greens  among  her  ginghams  and  voiles, 
she  draped  them  over  boxes  and  tubs.  Then  across  each  piece 
she  laid  a  string  of  beads  that  matched  or  contrasted  well  with 
the  colors  in  the  material,  and  waited  for  results. 

And  the  result  was  that  when  Joe  Phinney's  wife,  the 
squaw  who  helped  them  in  the  kitchen,  came  in  with  the 
intention  of  buying  beans  and  flour,  she  took  a  long  look,  first 
at  Ellie,  then  at  the  exhibit,  and  without  a  word  turned  and 
left.  She  did  not  hurry,  but  she  walked  straight  back  to  the 
Indian  village. 

"Guess  she  was  frightened,"  commented  Job. 

Ellie  was  disappointed.  She  had  depended  on  old  Mary, 
and  it  was  through  her  that  she  hoped  to  induce  the  other 
squaws  to  come.  Some  of  them  had  never  been  in  the  store. 
They  were  shy,,  and  left  their  men  to  do  the  buying. 

Their  sole  visitor  for  the  next  hour  was  Phil  Jennings,  the 
stage-driver,  who  stopped  in  for  the  mail.  "Well,  well, 
what  's  all  this  about !  Are  you  trying  to  outshine  the  stores 
in  town,  Miss  Ellie  ?    And  how  pretty  you  look  this  morning. " 

"Yes,  Mr.  Jennings.  We  're  going  to  have  a  fine  store 
here  by  this  time  next  year.  Uncle  's  thinking  of  enlarging 
it  and  putting  in  an  up-to-date  stock.  On  your  way  down, 
you  might  pass  the  word  along  that  our  summer  goods  are 
in  and  that  I  have  some  beautiful  pieces  here  for  dresses, 
just  as  good  as  can  be  bought  in  Tucson  or  Phoenix.  It  's 
easier  than  sending  away  to  Chicago." 

"Well,  I  sure  will,  Miss  Ellie.  Mother  was  growling  the 
other  day  because  she  would  have  to  go  to  Monmouth  to  buy 
ginghams  for  the  kids." 

1 '  Please  tell  her  that  next  week  I  'm  expecting  some  ready- 


246  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

made  clothes  for  children,  and  it  will  pay  her  to  come  up  and 
see  them." 

"I  '11  tell  her,"  said  Phil  Jennings,  as  he  cracked  his  whip 
and  started  off.  All  he  could  talk  about  that  day  was  "that 
clever  little  girl  of  Job  Lansing's"  who  was  going  to  make 
a  real  store  at  the  summit  and  keep  the  mountain  trade  where 
it  belonged. 

"Where  are  you,  Uncle?"  called  Ellie,  as  she  came  back 
into  the  store. 

"I  'm  hiding!"  said  Job.  "Ashamed  to  be  seen.  Enlarge 
the  store !  It  's  more  than  likely  I  '11  have  to  mortgage  it. 
And  you  drumming  up  trade  that  way.    It  isn't  ladylike." 

"Well,  it  simply  has  to  be  done.  He  '11  give  us  some  good 
advertising  down  the  road  to-day.  I  wish  there  was  some  one 
I  could  send  down  the  creek.  I  wonder  if  you  couldn't  ride 
down,  yourself." 

But  Job  Lansing  pretended  not  to  hear. 

Ellie  did  not  feel  as  brave  as  her  words  indicated.  She 
knew  that  their  trade  from  day  to  day  came  from  the  Indian 
settlement,  and  looked  disconsolately  out  of  the  window.  But 
in  a  moment  she  gave  an  exclamation  of  joy  and  found  herself 
shaking  her  uncle's  arm.  "Here  they  come,  Uncle,  dear! 
Here  they  come ! ' ' 

' '  Who  ?    What  are  you  talking  about  ? ' ' 

"The  squaws!  They  're  here  in  full  force.  Mary,  the  old 
darling,  she  's  brought  the  whole  tribe,  I  do  believe!" 

Ellie  busied  herself  at  the  counter,  trying  to  appear  at  ease 
when  the  Indian  women  filed  into  the  store  and  stood  gazing 
about  them.  She  was  impatient  to  know  if  they  were  pleased, 
but  their  impassive  faces  told  nothing.  She  would  just  have 
to  let  them  take  their  time.  So  she  pretended  not  to  notice 
them  as  they  drew  near  to  the  counter,  fingering  the  beads 
and  dress-goods. 

"How  do  you  like  my  new  dress,  Mary?"  Ellie  turned  on 
them  suddenly.  The  squaws  approached  slowly  and  began 
to  feel  the  cloth.  Mary  took  hold  of  the  beads  and  said, 
"Uh!"    Then  in  a  moment,  "How  much?" 

Ellie 's  impulse  was  to  throw  her  arms  around  Mary  and 


GETTING  UP  TO  DATE  247 

hug  her,  but  she  was  very  dignified  and  grown-up  as  she 
answered  calmly:  "We  don't  sell  the  beads.  They  are  not 
for  sale!" 

"Well  of  all  things!  Not  for  sale!"  muttered  Job,  as  he 
slipped  through  the  rear  door  into  the  store-room  and 
slammed  it  vehemently. 

"They  are  not  for  sale,  but  we  give  a  string  of  them  to 
any  one  who  buys  a  dress." 

Five  of  the  squaws  bought  dresses,  and  each  time  a  long 
string  of  beads  was  passed  over. 

In  the  afternoon,  Eilie's  watchful  eyes  caught  the  first 
glimpse  of  them  as  the  same  squaws,  accompanied  by  others, 
rounded  the  curve  in  the  path  and  came  single  file  up  the 
steep  short-cut  to  the  store. 

Ellie  counted  her  profits  that  night  and  was  satisfied.  Still, 
there  were  some  twenty  or  twenty-five  squaws  in  the  settle- 
ment who  had  never  been  inside  the  store,  and  she  made  up 
her  mind  that  they  must  be  persuaded  to  come. 

The  next  week  a  large  packing-case  arrived.  Ellie  was  the 
one  to  wield  the  hatchet  this  time,  for  her  uncle  was  still  in 
an  ungracious  mood.  The  box  was  larger  than  she  expected, 
but  this  was  explained  when  it  was  opened.  Two  large  dolls 
were  inside — one  with  curly  short  hair  and  boyish  face,  and 
the  other  a  real  "girly"  doll.  A  letter  explained  that  with 
an  order  for  children's  ready-to-wear  clothes  it  might  be  an 
advantage  to  have  dolls  on  which  to  display  them. 

"I  wonder!"  said  Ellie,  to  herself.  "Look  here,  Uncle," 
she  called,  as  the  old  man  came  into  the  store ;  ' '  see  what 
ihey  've  sent  me !  Look  at  these  pink  and  white  dolls,  when 
we  're  trading  with  Indians.    Isn't  it  a  joke?" 

"A  coat  of  brown  paint  is  what  you  want,"  said  old  Job, 
laughing  a  cynical  laugh. 

"You  've  hit  it,  Uncle!  You  certainly  have  dandy  ideas! 
I  shouldn't  have  thought  of  it." 

Then  in  a  moment  he  heard  her  at  the  telephone  giving  a 
number.  It  was  the  Prescott  ranch.  "Hello,  is  that  you, 
Louise?  Can  you  come  up  to-day?  I  need  you.  All  right. 
And  Lou,  bring  your  oil  paints.    It  's  very  important." 


248  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

It  was  with  much  giggling  and  chattering  that  the  two 
girls  began  their  transformation  of  the  pink-and-white  dolls. 
Their  bisque  faces  were  given  a  thin  coating  of  brown  paint. 
The  old  man  watched  them  from  across  the  store  and  almost 
gasped  as  he  saw  them  rip  off  the  wigs.  Then  they  retreated 
to  the  kitchen.  He  was  so  curious  that  he  made  several  trips 
to  the  door  and  peeked  through  a  crack. 

What  he  saw  was  the  two  girls  bending  over  a  pot  on  the 
stove,  which  they  were  stirring  furiously.  Once  in  a  while 
Ellie  raised  the  stick  with  something  black  on  the  end,  and 
finally  the  two  dripping  dolls'  wigs  were  hung  over  the  stove 
to  dry.  Of  course  the  boiling  had  taken  all  the  curl  out  of 
the  hair,  but  that  was  what  they  wanted,  for  the  two  dolls 
were  now  brown-faced,  dark-haired  figures.  They  were  ar- 
rayed in  the  ready-to-wear  clothes,  and  the  girls  stood  back 
to  survey  them. 

"They  look  fine,  Ellie!  That  is,  yours  does;  but  my  girt 
here  doesn't  look  quite  right." 

Job  Lansing  was  pretending  to  be  busy.  He  turned  and 
at  once  broke  into  a  roar  ot  laughter.  "Well,  when  did  you 
ever  see  a  blue-eyed  Injin?" 

' '  Oh  that  's  it,  Ellie.  Your  doll  had  brown  eyes,  but  mine 
are  blue.    What  shall  we  do?     It  looks  silly  this  way." 

"Paint  'em  black!"  chuckled  the  old  man. 

"Of  course!"  said  Ellie.  Then  in  a  tone  loud  enough  to 
carry  across  the  store,  "Isn't  Uncle  quick  to  notice  things?" 
Ellie  meant  him  to  hear  what  she  said,  but  she  was  none  the 
less  sincere,  for  she  did  have  a  high  regard  for  her  uncle's 
ability.  She  had  said  to  Louise  often  in  the  last  few  days, 
"When  I  get  Uncle  started,  there  '11  be  no  stopping  him." 
Still,  the  remark  had  been  sent  forth  with  a  purpose. 

Job  Lansing  gave  the  girl  a  quick  glance.  She  was  daubing 
brown  paint  on  the  girl-doll's  eyes.  He  was  pleased  by  her 
praise  and  no  less  by  her  readiness  to  take  his  advice. 

The  little  dresses  and  suits  sold  quickly.  Mrs.  Matthews 
bought  a  supply,  and  told  others  about  them. 

But  they  were  mostly  white  women  who  purchased  these 
things;  and  while  Ellie  was  glad  to  get  their  trade,  she  still 


'Isn't  this  great!     They're   here,    every   one   of   them!     You're 
awfully  good  to  let  us  use  the  phonograph'."     (page  250) 


GETTING  UP  TO  DATE  249 

had  the  fixed  idea  that  she  must  get  the  squaws  in  the  habit 
of  coming  in  to  do  their  own  shopping. 

The  quick  sale  of  the  new  goods  made  a  deep  impression 
on  Job  Lansing,  and  he  seemed  especially  pleased  at  the  sales 
made  to  the  white  women  at  the  mines.  One  morning  he  ap- 
proached his  niece  with  the  suggestion  that  she  had  better 
keep  her  eyes  open  and  find  out  what  the  women  around  the 
mountains  needed.  Ellie  had  been  doing  this  for  weeks.  She 
had  a  big  list  made  out  already,  but  she  saw  no  need  of  telling 
her  uncle.     She  looked  up,  her  face  beaming. 

"That  's  a  capital  idea,  Uncle.  I  think  we  might  just  as 
well  sell  them  all  their  supplies."  Ellie  was  exultant.  She 
knew  her  troubles  were  over,  that  her  plan  was  working  out. 

Still,  she  wasn't  quite  satisfied.  A  few  of  the  shy  squaws 
had  been  induced  to  come  up  and  look  at  things  from  the 
outside,  peering  into  the  shop  through  the  door  and  windows. 
But  there  were  probably  twenty  who  had  not  been  in  the 
store.  If  only  she  could  persuade  them  to  come  once,  there 
would  be  no  more  trouble. 

The  final  stroke  which  brought  the  Indians,  both  men  and 
women,  into  the  store  was  a  bit  of  good  luck.  Ellie  called  it 
a  miracle. 

It  was  after  a  very  heavy  rain-storm  in  the  mountains  that 
Jennings,  the  stage-driver,  shouted  to  her  one  evening:  "Do 
you  mind  if  I  leave  a  big  box  here  for  young  Creighton  over 
at  the  Scotia  mine?  The  road  's  all  washed  out  by  Camp  3, 
and  I  don't  dare  take  this  any  farther.  It  's  one  of  those 
phonygrafts  that  makes  music,  you  know.  And  say,  Miss 
Ellie,  will  you  telephone  him  that  it  's  here?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Ellie.  in  an  absent-minded  way.  "I  '11 
telephone  him.  She  was  still  half  dreaming  as  she  heard 
young  Creighton 's  voice  at  the  other  end  of  the  line,  but  at 
once  she  became  eager  and  alert.  "I  want  to  ask  a  favor  of 
you,  Mr.  Creighton?  Your  phonograph  is  here.  They  can't 
take  it  up  on  account  of  the  washout.  May  I  open  it  and 
play  on  it.  I  '11  make  sure  that  it  is  boxed  up  again  care- 
fully." 

"Why,  certainly,  Miss  Ellie!     I  '11  be  glad  to  have  you 


250  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

enjoy  the  music.    The  records  and  everything  are  in  the  box. 
Perhaps  I  '11  come  over  and  hear  it  myself." 

The  next  evening,  about  eight  o'clock,  "Will  Creighton  ar- 
rived on  horseback,  and  found  such  a  throng  of  Indians  close 
about  the  door  that  he  had  to  go  in  by  the  kitchen.  He  heard 
the  strains  of  the  phonograph  music  and  had  no  need  to  ask 
the  cause  of  the  excitement.  All  the  squaws  were  inside  the 
store.  Occasionally  one  would  extend  a  hand  and  touch  the 
case  or  peer  into  the  dark  box,  trying  to  discover  where  the 
sound  came  from. 

Creighton  approached  Ellie,  who  was  changing  a  needle. 
She  turned  her  flushed  face  to  him  with  a  smile.  "Isn't  this 
great !  They  're  here,  every  one  of  them !  You  're  awfully 
good  to  let  us  use  the  phonograph.  I  've  ordered  one  like  it 
for  ourselves.  These  blessed  squaws  do  enjoy  music  so 
much ! ' ' 

Job  Lansing  was  standing  near  the  machine,  enjoying  it 
as  much  as  any  one.  A  new  record  had  been  put  on,  the 
needle  adjusted,  and  the  music  issued  forth  from  that  mys 
terious  box.  It  was  one  of  those  college  songs,  a  "laughing" 
piece.  And  soon  old  Job  was  doubled  over,  with  his  enjoy- 
ment of  it.  The  squaws  drew  closer  together.  At  first  they 
scowled,  for  they  thought  that  the  queer  creature  in  the 
polished  case  was  laughing  at  them.  Then  one  began  to 
giggle,  and  soon  another  and  finally  the  store  was  filled  with 
hysterical  merriment.  Sometimes  it  would  stop  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then,  as  the  sounds  from  the  phonograph  could  be 
heard,  it  would  break  forth  again. 

Ellie  stood  for  hours,  playing  every  record  four  or  five 
times,  and  when  she  finally  shut  up  the  box,  as  a  sign  that 
the  concert  was  over,  the  taciturn  Indians  filed  silently  out 
of  the  store  and  went  home  without  a  word. 

But  the  girl  knew  that  they  would  return.     She  had  won ! 

Another  triumph  was  hers  when  the  springtime  came 
again.  One  day  her  uncle  approached  her  and  hesitatingly 
said,  "Ellie,  we  're  going  to  be  awfully  cramped  when  our 
new  summer  goods  arrive.  Guess  I  'd  better  have  Hoan  ride 
over  and  give  me  an  estimate  on  an  addition  to  the  store." 


GETTING  UP  TO  DATE  251 

Ellie  suppressed  the  desire  to  cry  out,  "I  told  you  so!" 
Instead  she  said  very  calmly :  "Why,  that  's  a  fine  idea,  Uncle. 
Business  is  picking  up,  and  it  would  be  nice  to  have  more 
room.    I  'm  glad  you  thought  of  it." 


SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  Why  does  the  story  begin  so  abruptly? 

2.  What  is  the  character  of  Job  Lansing? 

3.  What  is  the  character  of  Ellie? 

4.  How  does  the  author  explain  that  Ellie  has  views  that  do  not 

harmonize  with  her  uncle's  views? 

5.  What  advantage  does  the  author  gain  from  the  setting  of  the 

story? 

6.  How  does  the  author  make  the  story  seem  real? 

7.  Why  did  the  author  introduce  subordinate  characters? 

8.  Divide  the  story  into  its  component  incidents. 

9.  At  what  point  is  the  reader's  interest  greatest? 

10.  At  what  point  is  Ellie's  success  certain? 

11.  Which  incident  has  the  greatest  emphasis? 

12.  How  does  the  author  make  Ellie  the  principal  character? 

13.  What  is  the  effect  of  the  quick  conclusion? 

14.  How  does  the  author  make  use  of  conversation  as  a  means  of 

telling  events? 

15.  On  what  one  idea  is  the  story  founded? 


SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 

1.  Re-Arranging  the  House  11.  Our  Piazza 

2.  Fixing  Up  the  Office  12.  The  Flower  Garden 

3.  Increasing  Sales  13.  Selling  Hats 

4.  The  New  Clerk  14.  Building  Up  Trade 

5.  The  Old  Store  Made  New  15.  Father's  Desk 

6.  Our  Dooryard  16.  Making  Study  Easy 

7.  A  Back- Yard  Garden  17.  Making  a  Happy  Kitchen 

8.  Making  Over  the  Library  18.  A  Successful  Charity  Fair 

9.  Father's  Stable  19.  The  Window  Dresser 
10.  Decorating  the  School  Room  20.  A  Good  Advertisement 


252  MODEEN  ESSAYS  AND  STOEIES 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

"Write  about  a  subject  with  which  you  are  familiar,  and  with 
which  your  readers  are  familiar.  Make  your  principal  character  a 
young  person.  Make  your  story  concern  the  contrast  of  two 
methods  of  accomplishment,  one  of  which  will  represent  the  old 
and  least  successful  method;  the  other,  the  new  and  more  successful. 
Write  a  series  of  three  or  four  briefly  told  incidents  that  will  lead 
to  a  climax.  Make  free  use  of  conversation.  Notice  that  the  author 
of  Getting  Up  to  Date  has  left  out  much  that  might  have  been  said, 
and  has  thereby  made  the  story  crisp  and  emphatic.  Make  your 
own  story  condensed  and  to  the  point.  Pay  particular  attention  tc 
writing  a  strong  ending. 


THE  LION  AND  THE  MOUSE 
By  JOSEPH  B.  AMES 

(1878 — ).  An  American  engineer  and  author.  After  his 
graduation  from  Stevens  Institute  Mr.  Ames  at  first  devoted 
himself  entirely  to  engineering.  He  has  been  prominent  in 
promoting  the  work  of  the  Boy  Scouts.  Among  his  books  are 
the  following:  The  Mystery  of  Earn  Island;  Curly  of  the  Circle 
Bar;  Curly  and  the  Aztec  Gold;  Pete  the  Cowpuncher;  Under 
Boy  Scout  Colors;  Shoe-Bar  Stratton;  The  Emerald  Buddha. 

Realism  and  romance  may  be  combined  in  a  story  of  school  life  as 
Well  as  in  a  story  of  any  other  kind.  The  Lion  and  the  Mouse  tells,  in 
part,  of  ordinary,  everyday  events,  and  in  part,  of  events  that  are 
distinctly  out  of  the  ordinary.  The  characters  are  the  characters  of 
school  life, — two  boys  of  entirely  different  natures  but,  after  all,  one 
at  heart, — and  subordinate  characters  who  belong  in  the  realm  of  Teal 
life.  Many  of  the  events  of  the  story  are  commonplace  enough.  On 
this  basis  of  reality  there  has  been  founded  a  story  of  quick  event,  a 
etery  of  the  unusual,  entirely  probable,  centering  around  character  and 
character  development. 

Big  Bill  Hedges  scowled  out  of  the  locker-room  window 
and  groaned  softly.  There  was  something  about  that  wide, 
unbroken  sweep  of  snow  which  affected  him  disagreeably.  If 
only  it  had  been  crisscrossed  by  footprints,  or  the  tracks  of 
snow-shoes  or  toboggans,  he  wouldn't  have  minded  it  nearly 
so  much.  But  there  it  lay,  flat,  white,  untrodden,  drifting 
over  low  walls  and  turning  the  clumps  of  shrubbery  into 
shapeless  mounds.  And  of  a  sudden  he  found  himself  hating 
it  almost  as  much  as  the  dead  silence  of  the  endless,  empty 
rooms  about  him.  For  it  was  the  fourth  day  of  the  Christmas 
vacation,  and,  save  the  kitchen  staff,  there  were  only  two  other 
human  beings  in  this  whole  great  barracks  of  a  place. 

"And  neither  of  them  is  really  human,"  grunted  Hedges, 
turning  restlessly  from  the  window. 

With  a  disgusted  snort  he  recalled  the  behavior  of  those 
two,  whom  so  far  he  had  met  only  at  meal-time.    Mr.  Wilson, 

253 


254  MODEKN  ESSAYS  AND  STOKIES 

the  tutor  left  in  charge  of  the  school,  consumed  his  food  in  a 
preoccupied  sort  of  daze,  rousing  himself  at  rare  intervals 
to  make  some  plainly  perfunctory  remark.  He  was  writing 
some  article  or  other  for  the  magazines,  and  it  was  all  too 
evident  that  the  subject  filled  his  waking  hours.  And  "Plug" 
Seabury,  with  his  everlasting  book  propped  up  against  a 
tumbler,  was  even  worse.  But  then  Hedges  had  never  ex- 
pected anything  from  him. 

Crossing  to  his  locker,  the  boy  pulled  out  a  heavy  sweater, 
stared  at  it  dubiously  for  a  moment,  and  then  let  it  dangle 
from  his  relaxed  fingers.  For  once  the  thought  of  violent 
physical  exertion  in  the  open  failed  to  arouse  the  least  en- 
thusiasm. Ever  since  the  departure  of  the  fellows,  he  had 
skeed  and  snow-shoed  and  tramped  through  the  drifts — 
alone ;  and  now  the  monotony  was  getting  on  his  nerves.  He 
flung  the  sweater  back,  and,  slamming  the  locker  door,  strolled 
aimlessly  out  of  the  room. 

One  peep  into  the  cold,  lofty,  empty  "gym"  effectually 
quelled  his  half-formed  notion  of  putting  in  an  hour  or  two  on 
the  parallel  bars.  "I  'm  lonesome!"  he  growled;  "just — 
plumb — lonesome!  It  's  the  first  time  I  've  ever  wished  I 
did  n  't  live  in  Arizona. ' ' 

But  the  thought  of  home  and  Christmas  cheer  and  all  the 
other  vanished  holiday  delights  was  not  one  to  dwell  on  now ; 
he  tried  instead  to  appreciate  how  absurd  it  would  have  been 
to  spend  eight  of  his  twelve  holidays  on  the  train. 

A  little  further  dawdling  ended  in  his  turning  toward  the 
library.  He  was  not  in  the  least  fond  of  reading.  Life 
ordinarily,  with  its  constant  succession  of  outdoor  and  indoor 
sports  and  games,  was  much  too  full  to  think  of  wasting  time 
with  a  book  unless  one  had  to.  But  the  thought  occurred  to 
him  that  to-day  it  might  be  a  shade  better  than  doing  abso- 
lutely nothing. 

Opening  the  door  of  the  long,  low-ceiled,  book-lined  room, 
which  he  had  expected  to  find  as  desolately  empty  as  the  rest, 
he  paused  in  surprise.  On  the  brick  hearth  a  log  fire  burned 
eheerfully,  and  curled  up  in  an  easy  chair  close  to  the  hearth, 
was  the  slight  figure  of  Paul  Seabury. 


THE  LION  AND  THE  MOUSE  255 

' '  Hello ! ' '  said  Hedges,  gruffly,  when  he  had  recovered  from 
his  surprise.    "You  've  sure  made  yourself  comfortable." 

Seabury  gave  a  start  and  raised  his  head.  For  a  moment 
his  look  was  veiled,  abstracted,  as  if  his  mind  still  lingered 
on  the  book  lying  open  in  his  lap.  Then  recognition  slowly 
dawned,  and  a  faint  flush  crept  into  his  face. 

' '  The — the  wood  was  here,  and  I — I  did  n  't  think  there  'd 
be  any  harm  in  lighting  it,"  he  said,  thrusting  back  a  strag- 
gling lock  of  brown  hair. 

"I  don't  s'pose  there  is,"  returned  Hedges,  shortly.  Un- 
consciously, he  was  a  little  annoyed  that  Seabury  should  seem 
so  comfortable  and  content.    "I  thought  you  were  upstairs." 

He  dragged  a  chair  to  the  other  side  of  the  hearth  and 
plumped  down  in  it.     "What  you  reading?"  he  asked. 

Seabury 's  eyes  brightened.  "Treasure  Island,"  he  an- 
swered eagerly.  "It  's  awfully  exciting.  I  've  just  got  to 
the  place  where — " 

"Never  read  it,"  interrupted  the  big  fellow,  indifferently. 
Lounging  back  against  the  leather  cushions,  he  surveyed  the 
slim,  brown-eyed,  rather  pale-faced  boy  with  a  sort  of  con- 
temptuous curiosity.    "Do  you  read  all  the  time?"  he  asked. 

Again  the  blood  crept  up  into  Seabury 's  thin  face  and  his 
lids  drooped.  "Why,  no — not  all  the  time,"  he  answered 
slowly.    "But — but  just  now  there  's  nothing  else  to  do." 

Hedges  grunted.  "Nothing  else  to  do!  Gee-whiz!  Don't 
you  ever  feel  like  going  for  a  tramp  or  something?  I  s'pose 
you  can 't  snow-shoe,  or  skee,  but  I  should  n  't  think  you  'd 
want  to  stay  cooped  up  in  the  house  all  the  time. 

A  faint,  nervous  smile  curved  the  boy 's  sensitive  lips.  ' '  Oh, 
I  can  skee  and  snow-shoe  all  right,  but — "  He  paused, 
noticing  the  incredulous  expression  which  Hedges  was  at  no 
pains  to  hide.  "Everybody  does,  where  I  live  in  Canada," 
he  explained,  "often  it  's  the  only  way  to  get  about." 

"Oh,  I  see."  Hedges'  tone  was  no  longer  curt,  and  a 
sudden  look  of  interest  had  flashed  into  his  eyes.  ' '  But  don 't 
you  like  it?  Does  n't  this  snow  make  you  want  to  go  out  and 
try  some  stunts?" 

Seabury  glanced  sidewise  through  the  casement  windows 


256  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

at  the  sloping,  drifted  field  beyond.  "N — no,  I  can't  say  it 
does, ' '  he  confessed  hesitatingly ;  ' '  it  's  such  a  beastly,  rotten 
day." 

His  interest  in  Plug's  unexpected  accomplishments  made 
Hedges  forbear  to  comment  scornfully  on  such  weakness." 

"Rotten!"  he  repeated.  "Why,  it 's  not  bad  at  all.  It's 
stopped  snowing." 

"I  know;  but  it  looks  as  if  it  would  start  in  again  any 
minute. ' ' 

' '  Shucks ! ' '  sniffed  Hedges.  ' '  A  little  snow  won 't  hurt  you. 
Come  ahead  out  and  let  's  see  what  you  can  do." 

Seabury  hesitated,  glancing  with  a  shiver  at  the  cold,  white 
field  outside  and  back  to  the  cheerful  fire.  He  did  not  feel 
at  all  inclined  to  leave  his  comfortable  chair  and  this  en- 
thralling book.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was  curiously  un- 
willing to  merit  Bill  Hedges'  disapproval.  Prom  the  first 
he  had  regarded  this  big,  strong,  dominating  fellow  with  a 
secret  admiration  and  shy  liking  which  held  in  it  no  touch 
of  envy  or  desire  for  emulation.  It  was  the  sort  of  admira- 
tion he  felt  for  certain  heroes  in  his  favorite  books.  When 
Hedges  made  some  spectacular  play  on  the  gridiron  or  pulled 
off  an  especially  thrilling  stunt  on  the  hockey-rink,  Seabury, 
watching  inconspicuously  from  the  side-lines,  got  all  hot  and 
cold  and  breathlessly  excited.  But  he  was  quite  content  that 
Hedges  should  be  doing  it  and  not  himself.  Sometimes,  to  be 
sure,  he  wondered  what  it  would  be  like  to  have  such  a  person 
for  a  friend.  But  until  this  moment  Hedges  had  scarcely 
seemed  aware  of  his  existence,  and  Seabury  was  much  too 
shy  to  make  advances,  even  when  the  common  misfortune  of 
too-distant  homes  had  thrown  them  together  in  the  isolation 
of  the  empty  school. 

' '  I — I  have  n  't  any  skees, ' '  he  said  at  length. 

Hedges  sprang  briskly  to  his  feet.  "That  's  nothing.  I  11 
fix  you  up.    We  can  borrow  Marston's.     Come  ahead." 

Swept  along  by  his  enthusiasm,  Seabury  closed  his  book 
and  followed  him  out  into  the  corridor  and  down  to  the  locker 
room.  Here  they  got  out  sweaters,  woolen  gloves  and  caps, 
and  Hedges  calmly  appropriated  the  absent  Marston's  skees. 


THE  LION  AND  THE  MOUSE  257 

Emerging  finally  into  the  open,  Seabury  shivered  a  little  as 
the  keen,  searching  wind  struck  him.  It  came  from  the 
northeast,  and  there  was  a  chill,  penetrating  quality  about  it 
which  promised  more  snow,  and  that  soon.  By  the  time 
Seabury  had  adjusted  the  leather  harness  to  his  feet  and 
resumed  his  gloves,  his  fingers  were  blue  and  he  needed  no 
urging  to  set  off  at  a  swift  pace. 

In  saying  that  he  could  skee,  the  boy  had  not  exaggerated. 
He  was,  in  fact,  so  perfectly  at  home  upon  the  long,  smooth, 
curved-up  strips  of  ash,  that  he  moved  with  the  effortless  ease 
and  grace  of  one  scarcely  conscious  of  his  means  of  locomo- 
tion. Watching  him  closely,  Hedges'  expression  of  critical 
appraisement  changed  swiftly  to  one  of  unqualified  approval. 

"You  're  not  much  good  on  them,  are  you?"  he  commented. 
' '  I  suppose  you  can  jump  any  old  distance  and  do  all  sorts  of 
fancy  stunts." 

Seabury  laughed.  He  was  warm  again  and  beginning  to 
find  an  unwonted  pleasure  in  the  swift,  gliding  motion  and 
the  tingling  rush  of  frosty  air  against  his  face. 

"Nothing  like  that  at  all,"  he  answered.  "I  can  jump 
some,  of  course,  but  I  'm  really  not  much  good  at  anything 
except  just  straight-away  going." 

"Huh!"  grunted  Hedges,  sceptically.  "I  '11  bet  you  could 
run  circles  around  any  of  the  fellows  here.  Well,  what  do 
you  say  to  taking  a  little  tramp.  I  've  knocked  around  the 
grounds  till  I  'm  sick  of  them.  Let  's  go  up  Hogan  Hill," 
he  added,  with  a  burst  of  inspiration. 

Seabury  promptly  agreed,  though  inwardly  he  was  not 
altogether  thrilled  at  the  prospect  of  such  a  climb.  Hogan 
Hill  rose  steeply  back  of  the  school.  A  few  hay-fields  ranged 
along  its  lower  level,  but  above  them  the  timber  growth  was 
fairly  thick,  and  Paul  knew  from  experience  that  skeeing  on 
a  wooded  slope  was  far  from  easy. 

As  it  turned  out,  Hedges  had  no  intention  of  tackling  the 
steep  slope  directly.  He  knew  of  an  old  wood-road  which  led 
nearly  to  the  summit  by  more  leisurely  twists  and  curves,  and 
it  was  his  idea  that  they  take  this  as  far  as  it  went  and  then 
skee  down  its  open,  winding  length. 


258  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

By  the  time  they  were  half-way  up,  Seabury  was  pretty 
well  blown.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  been  on  skees  in 
nearly  a  year,  and  his  muscles  were  soft  from  general  lack 
of  exercise.  He  made  no  complaint,  however,  and  presently 
Hedges  himself  proposed  a  rest. 

' '  I  wish  I  could  handle  the  things  as  easily  as  you  do, ' '  he 
commented.  "I  work  so  almighty  hard  that  I  get  all  in  a 
sweat,  while  you  just  glide  along  as  if  you  were  on  skates." 

' '  I  may  glide,  but  I  have  n  't  any  wind  left, ' '  confessed 
Seabury.  "It  's  only  practice  you  know.  I  've  used  them 
ever  since  I  wTas  a  little  kid,  and  compared  to  some  of  the 
fellows  up  home,  I  'm  nowhere.  Do  you  think  we  ought  to 
go  any  farther?    I  felt  some  snow  on  my  face  just  then.'7 

"Oh,  sure!"  said  Hedges,  bluffly.  "A  little  snow  won't 
hurt  us,  anyhow,  and  we  can  skee  down  in  no  time  at  all. 
Let  's  not  go  back  just  yet." 

Presently  they  started  on  again,  and  though  Seabury  kept 
silent,  he  was  far  from  comfortable  in  his  mind.  He  had  had 
more  than  one  unpleasant  experience  with  sudden  winter 
storms.  It  seemed  to  him  wiser  to  turn  back  at  once,  but  he 
was  afraid  of  suggesting  it  again  lest  Hedges  think  him  a 
quitter. 

A  little  later,  still  mounting  the  narrow,  winding  trail,  they 
came  upon  a  rough  log  hut,  aged  and  deserted,  with  a  sagging, 
half-open  door;  but  the  two  boys,  unwilling  to  take  off  their 
skees,  did  not  stop  to  investigate  it. 

Every  now  and  then  during  the  next  half  mile  trifling  little 
gusts  of  stinging  snowflakes  whirled  down  from  the  leaden 
sky,  beat  against  their  faces,  and  scurried  on.  Seabury 's 
feeling  of  nervous  apprehension  increased,  but  Hedges,  in  his 
careless,  self-confident  manner  merely  laughed  and  said  that 
the  trip  home  would  be  all  the  more  interesting  for  little 
diversions  of  that  sort. 

The  words  were  scarcely  spoken  when,  from  the  distance, 
there  came  a  curious,  thin  wailing  of  the  wind,  rising  swiftly 
to  a  dull,  ominous  roar.  Startled,  both  boys  stopped  abruptly, 
and  stared  up  the  slope.    And  as  they  did  so,  something  like 


THE  LION  AND  THE  MOUSE  259 

a  vast,  white,  opaque  curtain  surged  over  the  crest  of  the  hill 
and  swept  swiftly  toward  thein. 

Almost  before  they  could  draw  a  breath  it  was  upon  them, 
a  dense,  blinding  mass  of  snow,  which  whirled  about  them  in 
choking  masses  and  blotted  out  the  landscape  in  a  flash. 

' '  AVough ! ' '  gasped  Hedges.  '  •  Some  speed  to  that !  I  guess 
we  'd  better  beat  it,  kid,  while  the  going  's  good. ' ' 

But  even  Hedges,  with  his  easy,  careless  confidence,  was 
swiftly  forced  to  the  realization  that  the  going  was  very  far 
from  good  even  then.  It  was  impossible  to  see  more  than  a 
dozen  yards  ahead  of  them.  As  a  matter  of  course,  the  older 
fellow  took  the  lead,  but  he  had  not  gone  far  before  he  ran 
off  the  track  and  only  saved  himself  from  a  spill  by  grabbing 
a  small  tree. 

"Have  to  take  it  easy,"  he  commented,  recovering  his 
balance.  "This  storm  will  let  up  soon;  it  can't  possibly  last 
long  this  way. ' ' 

Seabury  made  no  answer.  Shaking  with  nervousness,  he 
could  not  trust  himself  to  speak. 

Regaining  the  trail,  Hedges  started  off  again,  cautiously 
enough  at  first.  But  a  little  success  seemed  to  restore  his 
confidence,  and  he  began  to  use  his  staff  as  a  brake  with  less 
and  less  frequency.  They  had  gone  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  when  a  sudden  heavier  gust  of  stinging  flakes  momen- 
tarily blinded  them  both.  Seabury  instantly  put  on  the 
brake  and  almost  stopped.  When  he  was  able  to  clear  his 
eyes,  Hedges  was  out  of  sight.  An  instant  later  there  came 
a  sudden  crash,  a  startled,  muffled  cry,  and  then — silence! 

Horrified,  Seabury  instantly  jerked  his  staff  out  of  the  snow 
and  sped  forward.  At  first,  he  could  barely  see  the  tracks 
of  his  companion's  skees,  but  presently  the  storm  lightened 
a  trifle  and  of  a  sudden  he  realized  what  had  happened. 
Hedges  had  misjudged  a  sharp  curve  in  the  trail  and,  instead 
of  following  it,  had  plunged  off  to  one  side  and  down  a  steep 
declivity  thickly  grown  with  trees.  At  the  foot  of  this  little 
slope  Seabury  found  him  lying  motionless,  a  twisted  heap, 
face  downward  in  the  snow. 


260  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

Sick  with  horror,  the  boy  bent  over  that  silent  figure. 
"Bill!"  he  cried,  "what  has—" 

His  voice  died  in  a  choking  sob,  but  a  moment  later  his 
heart  leaped  as  Hedges  stirred,  tried  to  rise,  and  fell  back 
with  a  stifled  groan. 

"It  's — my  ankle,"  he  mumbled,  "I — I  've — turned  it. 
See  if  you  can't — " 

With  shaking  fingers,  Seabury  jerked  at  the  buckles  of  his 
skees  and  stepped  out  of  them.  Hedges'  left  foot  was  twisted 
under  him,  and  the  front  part  of  his  skee  was  broken  off. 
As  Paul  freed  the  other's  feet  from  their  encumbering  straps, 
Bill  made  a  second  effort  to  rise,  but  his  face  turned  quite 
white  and  he  sank  back  with  a  grunt  of  pain. 

"Thunder!"  he  muttered.    "I — I  believe  it  's  sprained." 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  sat  there,  face  screwed  up,  arms 
gripping  his  knees.  Then,  as  his  head  cleared,  he  looked  up 
at  the  frightened  Seabury,  a  wry  smile  twisting  the  corners  of 
his  mouth. 

"I  'm  an  awful  nut,  kid,"  he  said.  "I  forgot  that  curve 
and  was  going  too  fast  to  pull  up.  Reckon  I  deserve  that 
crack  on  the  head  and  all  the  rest  of  it  for  being  so  aw^ 
fully  cocky.  Looks  as  if  we  were  in  rather  a  mess,  doesn't 
it?" 

Seabury  nodded,  still  unable  to  trust  himself  to  speak. 
But  Hedges'  coolness  soothed  his  jangled  nerves,  and  pres- 
ently a  thought  struck  him. 

"That  cabin  back  there!"  he  exclaimed.  "If  we  could 
only  manage  to  get  that  far — " 

He  paused  and  the  other  nodded.  "Good  idea,"  he  agreed 
promptly.  "I  'm  afraid  I  can't  walk  it,  but  I  might  be  able 
to  crawl." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that.  If  we  only  had  some  way  of 
fastening  my  skees  together,  you  could  lie  down  on  them  and 
I  could  pull  you." 

A  gleam  of  admiration  came  into  the  older  chap's  dark 
eyes.  "You  've  got  your  nerve  with  you,  old  man,"  he  said. 
"Do  you  know  how  much  I  weigh?" 

That   doesn't   matter,"    protested   Seabury.     "It's   all 


<  <  i 


THE  LION  AND  THE  MOUSE  261 

down  hill ;  it  would  n  't  be  so  hard.  Besides,  we  can 't  stay 
here  or — or  we  '11  freeze." 

"Now  you  've  said  something,"  agreed  Hedges. 

And  it  was  true.  Already  Seabury  's  teeth  were  chattering, 
and  even  the  warmer  blooded  Hedges  could  feel  the  cold  pene- 
trating his  thick  sweater.  He  tried  to  think  of  some  other 
way  out  of  their  predicament,  but  finally  agreed  to  try  the 
plan.  His  heavy,  high  shoes  were  laced  with  rawhide  thongs, 
which  sufficed  roughly  to  bind  the  two  skees  together.  There 
was  no  possibility,  however,  of  pulling  them.  The  only  way 
they  could  manage  was  for  Hedges  to  seat  himself  on  the 
improvised  toboggan  while  Seabury  trudged  behind  and 
pushed. 

It  was  a  toilsome  and  painful  method  of  progress  for  them 
both  and  often  jolted  Hedges'  ankle,  which  was  already  badly 
swollen,  bringing  on  a  constant  succession  of  sharp,  keen 
stabs.  Seabury,  wading  knee-deep  in  the  snow,  was  soon 
breathless,  and  by  the  time  they  reached  the  cabin,  he  felt 
utterly  done  up. 

"Couldn't  have  kept  that  up  much  longer,"  grunted 
Hedges,  when  they  were  inside  the  shelter  with  the  door 
closed  against  the  storm. 

His  alert  gaze  traveled  swiftly  around  the  bare  interior. 
There  was  a  rough  stone  chimney  at  one  end,  a  shuttered 
window  at  the  back,  and  that  was  all.  Snow  lay  piled  up  on 
the  cold  hearth,  and  here  and  there  made  little  ridges  on  the 
logs  where  it  had  filtered  through  the  many  cracks  and 
crevices.  "Without  the  means  of  making  fire,  it  was  not  much 
better  than  the  out-of-doors,  and  Hedges'  heart  sank  as  he 
glanced  at  his  companion,  leaning  exhausted  against  the  wall. 

"It  's  sure  to  stop  pretty  soon,"  he  said  presently,  with  a 
confidence  he  did  not  feel.  "When  it  lets  up  a  little,  we 
might—" 

"I  don't  believe  it  's  going  to  let  up."  Seabury  straight- 
ened with  an  odd,  unwonted  air  of  decision.  "I  was  caught 
in  a  storm  like  this  two  years  ago  and  it  lasted  over  two 
days.    We  've  got  to  do  something,  and  do  it  pretty  quick." 

Hedges  stared  at  him,  amazed  at  the  sudden  transforma- 


262  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

tion.     He  did  not  understand  that  a  long-continued  nervoub 
strain  will  sometimes  bring  about  strange  reactions. 

' '  You  're  not  thinking  of  pushing  me  all  the  way  down  the 
road,  are  you?"  he  protested.  "I  don't  believe  you  could 
do  it." 

"I  don't  believe  I  could,  either,"  agreed  the  other,  frankly. 
"But  I  could  go  down  alone  and  bring  back  help." 

"Gee-whiz!  You — you  mean  skee  down  that  road?  Why, 
it  's  over  three  miles,  and  you'  d  miss  the  trail  a  dozen  times." 

"I  shouldn't  try  the  road,"  said  Seabury,  quietly.  His 
face  was  pale,  but  there  was  a  determined  set  to  the  delicate 
chin.  "If  I  went  straight  down  the  hill  back  of  this  cabin, 
I  'd  land  close  to  the  school,  and  I  don't  believe  the  whole 
distance  is  over  half  a  mile." 

Hedges  gasped.  "You  're  crazy,  man!  Why,  you  'd  kill 
yourself  in  the  first  hundred  feet  trying  to  skee  through 
those  trees." 

"I  don't  think  so.  I  've  done  it  before — some.  Besides, 
most  of  the  slope  is  open  fields.  I  noticed  that  when  we 
started  out." 

"But  they  're  steep  as  the  dickens,  with  stone  walls,  and — " 

Seabury  cut  short  his  protests  by  buttoning  his  collar 
tightly  about  his  throat  and  testing  the  laces  of  his  shoes. 
He  was  afraid  to  delay  lest  his  resolution  should  break  down. 

"I  'm  going,"  he  stated  stubbornly;  "and  the  sooner  I 
get  off,  the  better." 

And  go  he  did,  with  a  curt  farewell  which  astonished  and 
bewildered  his  companion  who  had  no  means  of  knowing  that 
it  was  a  manner  assumed  to  hide  a  desperate  fear  and  ner- 
vousness. As  the  door  closed  between  them,  Seabury 's  lips 
began  to  tremble;  and  his  hands  shook  so  that  he  could 
scarcely  tighten  up  the  straps  of  his  skees. 

Back  of  the  cabin,  poised  at  the  top  of  the  slope,  with  the 
snow  whirling  around  him  and  the  unknown  in  front,  he  had 
one  horrible  moment  of  indecision  when  his  heart  lay  like 
lead  within  him  and  he  was  on  the  verge  of  turning  back. 
But  with  a  tremendous  effort  he  crushed  down  that  almost 
irresistible  impulse.    He  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  facing 


THE  LION  AND  THE  MOUSE  263 

Hedges,  an  acknowledged  coward  and  a  quitter.  An  instant 
later  a  thrust  of  his  staff  sent  him  over  the  edge,  to  glide 
downward  through  the  trees  with  swiftly  increasing  mo- 
mentum. 

Strangely  enough,  he  felt  somehow  that  the  worst  was  over. 
To  begin  with,  he  was  much  too  occupied  to  think  of  danger, 
and  after  he  had  successfully  steered  through  the  first  hun- 
dred feet  or  so  of  woods,  a  growing  confidence  in  himself 
helped  to  bolster  up  his  shrinking  spirit.  After  all,  save  for 
the  blinding  snow,  this  was  no  worse  than  some  of  the  descents 
he  had  made  of  wooded  slopes  back  there  at  home.  If  the 
storm  did  not  increase,  he  believed  that  he  could  make  it. 

At  first  he  managed,  by  a  skilful  use  of  his  staff,  to  hold 
himself  back  a  little  and  keep  his  speed  within  a  reasonable 
limit.  But  just  before  he  left  the  woods,  the  necessity  for 
a  sudden  side-turn  to  avoid  a  clump  of  trees  through  which 
he  could  not  pass  nearly  flung  him  off  his  balance.  In  strug- 
gling to  recover  it,  the  end  of  his  staff  struck  against  another 
tree  and  was  torn  instantly  from  his  grasp. 

His  heart  leaped,  then  sank  sickeningly,  but  there  was  no 
stopping  now.  A  moment  later  he  flashed  out  into  the  open, 
swerved  through  a  gap  in  the  rough,  snow-covered  wall,  and 
shot  down  the  steep  incline  with  swiftly  increasing  speed. 

His  body  tense  and  bent  slightly  forward,  his  straining 
gaze  set  unwaveringly  ahead,  striving  to  pierce  the  whirling, 
beating  snow,  Seabury  felt  as  if  he  were  flying  through  the 
clouds.  On  a  clear  day,  with  the  ability  to  see  what  lay 
before  him,  there  would  have  been  a  rather  delightful  ex- 
hilaration in  that  descent.  But  the  perilous  uncertainty  of 
it  all  kept  the  boy's  heart  in  his  throat  and  chained  him  in 
a  rigid  grip  of  cold  fear. 

Long  before  he  expected  it,  the  rounded,  snow-covered  bulk 
of  a  second  wall  seemed  to  leap  out  of  the  blinding  snow- 
curtain  and  rush  toward  him.  Almost  too  late,  he  jumped, 
and,  soaring  through  the  air,  struck  the  declining  slope  again 
a  good  thirty  feet  beyond. 

In  the  lightning  passage  of  that  second  field,  he  tried  to 
figure  where  he  was  coming  out  and  what  obstacles  he  might 


264  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STOEIES 

encounter,  but  the  effort  was  fruitless.  He  knew  that  the 
highroad,  bordered  by  a  third  stone  wall,  ran  along  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  with  the  school  grounds  on  the  other  side.  But 
the  speed  at  which  he  was  traveling  made  consecutive  thought 
almost  impossible. 

Again,  with  that  same  appalling  swiftness,  the  final  barrier 
loomed  ahead.  He  leaped,  and,  at  the  very  take-off,  a  gasp 
of  horror  was  jolted  from  his  lips  by  the  sight  of  a  two-horse 
sledge  moving  along  the  road  directly  in  his  path ! 

It  was  all  over  in  a  flash.  Helpless  to  avoid  the  collision, 
Seabury  nevertheless  twisted  his  body  instinctively  to  the 
left.  He  was  vaguely  conscious  of  a  monstrous  looming  bulk ; 
of  a  startled  snort  which  sent  a  wave  of  hot  breath  against 
his  face,  and  the  equally  startled  yell  of  a  human  voice.  The 
next  instant  he  landed  badly,  his  feet  shot  out  from  under 
him,  and  he  fell  backward  with  a  stunning  crash. 

His  first  conscious  observation  was  of  two  strange  faces 
bending  over  him  and  of  hands  lifting  him  from  where  he 
lay  half  buried  in  the  snow.  For  a  moment  he  was  too  dazed 
to  speak  or  even  to  remember.  Then,  with  a  surging  rush  of 
immense  relief,  he  realized  what  had  happened,  and  gaining 
speech,  he  poured  out  a  hurried  but  fairly  coherent  account 
of  the  situation. 

His  rescuers  proved  to  be  woodsmen,  perfectly  familiar 
with  the  Hogan  Hill  trail  and  the  old  log-cabin.  Seabury 's 
skees  were  taken  off  and  he  was  helped  into  the  sledge  and 
driven  to  the  near-by  school.  Stiff  and  sore,  but  otherwise 
unhurt,  he  wanted  to  go  with  them,  but  his  request  was 
firmly  refused ;  and  pausing  only  long  enough  to  get  some 
rugs  and  a  heavy  coat,  the  pair  set  off.  Little  more  than  two 
hours  later  they  returned  with  the  injured  Hedges,  who  was 
carried  at  once  to  the  infirmary  to  be  treated  for  exposure 
and  a  badly  sprained  ankle. 

His  rugged  constitution  responded  readily  to  the  former, 
but  the  ankle  proved  more  stubborn,  and  he  was  ordered  by 
the  doctor  not  to  attempt  even  to  hobble  around  on  it  for  at 
least  a  week.  As  a  result,  Christmas  dinner  had  to  be  eaten 
in  bed.    But  somehow  Hedges  did  not  mind  that  very  much, 


L- 


'*&&-■ 


4m 


ut 


■  Wm 


«cf 


j 


"At  the  very  take-off,  a  gasp  of  horror  was  jolted  from  his  lips." 

(page  264) 


THE  LION  AND  THE  MOUSE  265 

for  Paul  Seabury  shared  it,  sitting  on  the  other  side  of  a 
folding  table  drawn  up  beside  the  couch. 

Having  consumed  everything  in  sight  and  reached  that 
state  of  repletion  without  which  no  Christmas  dinner  may  be 
considered  really  perfect,  the  two  boys  relapsed  for  a  space 
into  a  comfortable,  friendly  sort  of  silence. 

"Not  much  on  skees,  are  you?"  commented  Hedges,  pres- 
ently, glancing  quizzically  at  his  companion. 

Seabury  flushed  a  little.  "I  wish  you  wouldn't,"  he 
protested.  "If  you  had  any  idea  how  scared  I  was,  and — 
and —    Why,  the  whole  thing  was  just  pure  luck." 

Hedges  snorted.  ' '  Bosh !  You  go  tell  that  to  your  grand- 
mother. There  's  one  thing, ' '  he  added ;  "as  soon  as  I  'm 
around  again,  you  've  got  to  come  out  and  give  me  some 
points.  I  thought  I  was  fairly  decent  on  skees,  but  I  guess 
after  all  I  'm  pretty  punk." 

"I  '11  show  you  anything  I  can,  of  course,"  agreed  Sea- 
bury, readily.  He  paused  an  instant  and  then  went  on 
hesitatingly:  "I — I'm  going  to  do  a  lot  more  of  that  sort 
of  thing  from  now  on.  It — it  was  simply  disgusting  the  way 
I  got  winded  so  soon  and  all  tired  out." 

' '  Sure, ' '  nodded  Hedges,  promptly.  ' '  That  's  what  I  've 
always  said.  You  ought  to  take  more  exercise  and  not  mope 
around  by  yourself  so  much.  But  we  '11  fix  that  up  all  right 
from  now  on. ' '  He  paused.  ' '  Are  n  't  you  going  to  read  some 
more  in  'Treasure  Island'?"  he  asked  expectantly.  "That  's 
some  book,  believe  me!  What  with  you  and  that  and  every- 
thing, I  'm  not  going  to  mind  being  laid  up  at  all." 

Seabury  made  no  comment,  but  as  he  reached  for  the  book 
and  found  their  place,  the  corners  of  his  mouth  curved  with 
the  beginnings  of  a  contented,  happy  smile. 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  What  is  the  character  of  Bill  Hedges'? 

2.  What  is  the  character  of  "Plug"  Seabury? 

3.  Why  are  both  boys  at  the  school  in  vacation  time? 

4.  What  had  been  the  past  life  of  each  boy? 

5.  What  had  been  their  feeling  for  each  other? 


266  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

6.  "What  change  does  the  story  make  in  their  feeling  for  each  other? 

7.  How  does  the  author  make  the  story  seem  probable? 

8.  Show  how  the  author  leads  to  the  climax  of  the  story. 

9.  Divide  the  story  into  its  most  important  incidents. 

10.  Show  that  the  author  is  consistent  in  character  presentation. 

11.  How  does  the  author  make  the  climax  powerful  in  effect? 

12.  What  makes  the  conclusion  effective? 

13.  What  use  does  the  author  make  of  conversation? 

14.  What  is  the  proportion  of  description  and  explanation  in  the 

story? 

15.  What  are  the  good  characteristics  of  the  story? 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 

1.  A  Summer  Adventure  11.  The  Fire  in  School 

2.  At  Easter  Time  12.  An  Unexpected  Here 

3.  The  Swimming  Match  13.  Tony's  Brother 

4.  A  Cross  Country  Adventure     14.  Skating  on  the  River 

5.  The  Lost  Books  15.  The  Bicycle  Meet 

6.  The  School  Bully  16.  At  the  Sea  Shore 

7.  The  Hiding  Place  17.  The  Trip  to  the  Woods 

8.  An  Excursion  18.  The  Surprise  of  the  Day 

9.  The  Little  Freshman  19.  The  Best  Batter 

10.  Our  Election  Day  20.  How  We  Found  a  Captain 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

"Write  a  story  that  will  be  closely  connected  with  school  life.  Use 
the  ordinary  characters  that  are  to  be  found  in  your  school,  but  use 
typical  characters  that  will  sum  up  well-recognized  characteristics. 
Base  your  story  upon  any  sharp  contrast  in  characters.  Begin 
your  story  by  telling  of  everyday  events,  but  make  those  events  lead 
quickly  to  events  that  are  out  of  the  ordinary.  In  like  manner  begin 
with  familiar  surroundings  and  then  lead  your  readers  into  sur- 
roundings that  will  be  less  familiar  and  that  will  be  an  appropriate 
setting  for  unusual  action.  Make  the  climax  of  your  story  powerful 
by  using  suspense.  Indicate  that  your  hero  is  likely  to  be  over- 
come. Make  his  final  success  depend  upon  his  resolution  or  good 
spirit, — upon  his  character.  Use  much  conversation.  Omit  every- 
thing that  will  not  contribute  to  the  effect  of  the  climax. 


THE  CRITICAL  ESSAY 
CODDLING  IN  EDUCATION 

By  HENRY  SEIDEL  CANBY 

(1878).  Editor  of  The  Literary  Review;  Assistant  Editor  of 
The  Yale  Review,  and  Assistant  Professor  of  English  in  the 
Sheffield  Scientific  School.  He  is  author  and  co-author  of  many 
books  on  English,  among  which  are:  The  Short  Story;  Facts, 
Thought  and  Imagination;    and  Good  English. 

The  critical  essay  comments  on  a  fault, — but  it  does  no  more:  it 
makes  no  searching  analysis  and  it  points  to  no  specific  remedy. 

Coddling  in  Education  is  a  critical  essay.  It  points  at  what  its 
author  believes  is  a  serious  fault  in  American  education.  Like  all 
critical  essays  it  aims  at  reform,  but  it  merely  suggests  the  means  of 
reform. 

Many  of  the  editorial  articles  in  newspapers  are  examples  of  the 
critical  essay. 

American  minds  have  been  coddled  in  school  and  college 
for  at  least  a  generation.  There  are  two  kinds  of  mental 
coddling.  The  first  belongs  to  the  public  schools,  and  is  one 
of  the  defects  of  our  educational  system  that  we  abuse  pri- 
vately and  largely  keep  out  of  print.  It  is  democratic 
coddling.  I  mean,  of  course,  the  failure  to  hold  up  standards, 
the  willingness  to  let  youth  wobble  upward,  knowing  little 
and  that  inaccurately,  passing  nothing  well,  graduating  with 
an  education  that  hits  and  misses  like  an  old  type-writer  with 
a  torn  ribbon.  America  is  full  of  "sloppy  thinking,"  of  in- 
accuracy, of  half-baked  misinformation,  of  sentimentalism, 
especially  sentimentalism,  as  a  result  of  coddling  by  schools 
that  cater  to  an  easy-going  democracy.  Only  fifty-six  per 
cent,  of  a  group  of  girls,  graduates  of  the  public  schools, 
whose  records  I  once  examined,  could  do  simple  addition, 
only  twenty-nine  per  cent,  simple  multiplication  correctly; 
a  deplorable  percentage  had  a  very  inaccurate  knowledge  of 
elementary  American  geography. 

267 


268  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

A  dozen  causes  are  responsible  for  this  condition,  and 
among  them,  I  suspect,  one,  which  if  not  major,  at  least  de- 
serves careful  pondering.  The  teacher  and  the  taught  have 
somehow  drifted  apart.  His  function  in  the  large  has  been 
to  teach  an  ideal,  a  tradition.  He  is  content,  he  has  to  be 
content,  with  partial  results.  It  is  not  for  life  as  it  is,  it  is 
for  what  life  ought  to  be,  that  he  is  preparing  even  in  arith- 
metic; he  has  allowed  the  faint  unreality  of  a  priestcraft  to 
numb  him.  In  the  mind  of  the  student  a  dim  conception  has 
entered,  that  this  education — all  education — is  a  garment 
merely,  to  be  doffed  for  the  struggle  with  realities.  The  will 
is  dulled.    Interest  slackens. 

But  it  is  in  aristocratic  coddling  that  the  effects  of  our 
educational  attitude  gleam  out  to  the  least  observant  under- 
standing. This  is  the  coddling  of  the  preparatory  schools 
and  the  colleges,  and  it  is  more  serious  for  it  is  a  defect  that 
cannot  be  explained  away  by  the  hundred  difficulties  that 
beset  good  teaching  in  a  public-school  system,  nation-wide, 
and  conducted  for  the  young  of  every  race  in  the  American 
menagerie.  The  teaching  in  the  best  American  preparatory 
schools  and  colleges  is  as  careful  and  as  conscientious  as  any 
in  the  world.  That  one  gladly  asserts.  Indeed,  an  American 
boy  in  a  good  boarding-school  is  handled  like  a  rare  microbe 
in  a  research  laboratory.  He  is  ticketed ;  every  instant  of  his 
time  is  planned  and  scrutinized ;  he  is  dieted  with  brain  food, 
predigested,  and  weighed  before  application.  I  sometimes 
wonder  if  a  moron  could  not  be  made  into  an  Abraham 
Lincoln  by  such  a  system — if  the  system  were  sound. 

It  is  not  sound.  The  boys  and  girls,  especially  the  boys, 
are  coddled  for  entrance  examinations,  coddled  through 
freshman  year,  coddled  oftentimes  for  graduation.  And  they 
too  frequently  go  out  into  the  world  fireproof  against  any- 
thing but  intellectual  coddling.  Such  men  and  women  can 
read  only  writing  especially  prepared  for  brains  that  will 
take  only  selected  ideas,  simply  put.  They  can  think  only  on 
simple  lines,  not  too  far  extended.  They  can  live  happily 
only  in  a  life  where  ideas  never  exceed  the  college  sixty  per 


CODDLING  IN  EDUCATION  269 

cent,  of  complexity,  and  where  no  intellectual  or  esthetic  ex- 
perience lies  too  far  outside  the  range  of  their  curriculum. 
A  world  where  one  reads  the  news  and  skips  the  editorials; 
goes  to  musical  comedies,  but  omits  the  plays;  looks  at  illus- 
trated magazines,  but  seldom  at  books ;  talks  business,  sports, 
and  politics,  but  never  economics,  social  welfare,  and  states- 
manship— that  is  the  world  for  which  we  coddle  the  best  of 
our  youth.  Many  indeed  escape  the  evil  effects  by  their 
own  innate  originality ;  more  bear  the  marks  to  the  grave. 

The  process  is  simple,  and  one  can  see  it  in  the  English 
public  school  (where  it  is  being  attacked  vivaciously)  quite 
as  commonly  as  here.  You  take  your  boy  out  of  his  family 
and  his  world.  You  isolate  him  except  for  companionship 
with  other  nursery  transplantings  and  teachers  themselves 
isolated.  And  then  you  feed  him,  nay,  you  cram  him,  with 
good  traditional  education,  filling  up  the  odd  hours  with  the 
excellent,  but  negative,  passion  of  sport.  Then  you  subject 
him  to  a  special  cramming  and  send  him  to  college,  where 
sometimes  he  breaks  through  the  net  of  convention  woven 
about  him,  and  sees  the  real  world  as  it  should  appear  to  the 
student  before  he  becomes  part  of  it;  but  more  frequently 
wraps  himself  deep  and  more  deeply  in  conventional  opinion, 
conventional  practice,  until,  the  limbs  of  his  intellectual  being 
bound  tightly,  he  stumbles  into  the  outer  world. 

And  there,  in  the  swirl  and  the  vivid  practicalities  of 
American  life,  is  the  net  loosened?  I  think  not.  I  think 
rather  that  the  youth  learns  to  swim  clumsily  despite  his 
encumbrances  of  lethargic  thinking  and  tangled  idealism. 
But  if  they  are  cut?  If  he  goes  on  the  sharp  rocks  of  ex- 
perience, finds  that  hardness,  shrewdness,  selfish  individualism 
pay  best  in  American  life,  what  has  he  in  his  spirit  to  meet  this 
disillusion  ?  Of  what  use  has  been  his  education  in  the  liberal, 
idealistic  traditions  of  America?  Of  some  use,  undoubtedly, 
for  habit,  even  a  dull  habit,  is  strong;  but  whether  useful 
enough,  whether  powerful  enough,  to  save  America,  to  keep 
us  ' '  white ' '  in  the  newer  and  more  colloquial  sense,  the  future 
will  test  and  test  quickly. 


270 


MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 


SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  Explain  what  the  writer  means  by  "coddling." 

2.  Define  "democratic  coddling." 

3.  Define  aristocratic  "coddling." 

4.  What  are  the  results  of  "coddling"? 

5.  What  are  the  causes  of  "coddling"? 

6.  What  is  the  writer's  ideal  of  education? 

7.  What  criticism  of  American  life  does  the  essay  present? 

8.  Point  out  effective  phrasing. 


SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 


1.  The  Best  Kind  of  Teacher 

2.  The  Most  Helpful  Subjects 

3.  The  Value  of  Marks 

4.  Study  and  Play 

5.  What  Promotion  Means 

6.  Mistaken  Kindness 

7.  The  Passing  Mark 

8.  Scholarship  in  My  School 

9.  The  Purposes  of  Study 
10.  The  School  Course 


11.  Thinking  for  One's  Self 

12.  60%  or  100% 

13.  Serious  Reading 

14.  Pleasure  Seeking 

15.  Character  Training 

16.  The  Value  of  Hard  Work 

17.  Discipline 

18.  Faithfulness  in  Work 

19.  Real  Success  in  Life 

20.  "Cramming." 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

Plan  to  emphasize  some  original  phrasing  like  "Coddling  in  School 
and  College."  Use  familiar  words  that  every  one  will  understand 
but  use  them  in  some  new  relation. 

Make  your  essay  point  at  a  really  serious  fault  that  will  be  worthy 
of  attack.  Do  not  go  into  details,  but  make  your  writing  represent 
your  honest  opinion. 

Use  expressions  that  will  represent  you,  and  that  will  make  your 
essay  personal  in  nature.  Notice  how  Mr.  Canby  makes  use  of 
such  words  as  "wobble,"  "sloppy,"  "half-baked,"  "coddle,"  "cram" 
and  "white."  Notice,  too,  how  many  conversational  short  sentences 
Mr.  Canby  uses.  His  essay  is  like  a  vigorous  talk.  Make  your 
own  essay  equally  personal  and  equally  vigorous. 


A  SUCCESSFUL  FAILURE 

By  GLENN  FKANK 

(1887 — ).  Editor  of  The  Century  Magazine.  He  is  a  mem- 
ber of  many  important  associations,  and  was  one  of  ex-President 
Taft's  associates  in  suggesting  a  covenant  for  the  League  of 
Nations.  His  magazine  articles  are  notable  for  constructive 
thought. 

Any  subject  is  appropriate  material  for  the  essayist,  and  any  method 
of  treatment  is  satisfactory  so  long  as  the  writer  gives  us  his  personal 
reaction  on  some  province  of  human  thought. 

The  following  critical  essay  begins  with  the  writer's  account  of  a 
series  of  papers  that  he  once  read.  To  this  he  adds  his  own  serious 
comment,  and  he  concludes  his  work  by  suggesting  an  ideal.  In  doing 
all  this  he  makes  free  use  of  the  pronoun  "  I, "  and  writes  in  an 
informal  style. 

The  work  is  therefore  not  hard  and  fast  logic,  but  mature  and  serious 
comment  on  life. 

Several  years  ago  there  appeared  a  series  of  papers  that 
purported  to  be  the  confessions  of  a  successful  man  who  was 
under  no  delusion  as  to  the  essential  quality  of  his  attain- 
ments. The  papers  are  not  before  me  as  I  write,  and  I  must 
trust  to  memory  and  a  few  penciled  notes  made  at  the  time 
of  their  appearance,  but  it  will  be  interesting  to  recall  his 
confessions  regarding  his  education.  I  think  they  paint  a 
fairly  faithful  picture  of  the  mind  of  the  average  college 
graduate. 

He  stated  that  he  came  from  a  family  that  prided  itself  on 
its  culture  and  intellectuality  and  that  had  always  been  a 
family  of  professional  folk.  His  grandfather  was  a  clergy- 
man; among  his  uncles  were  a  lawyer,  a  physician,  and  a 
professor;  his  sisters  married  professional  men.  He  received 
a  fairly  good  primary  and  secondary  education,  and  was 
graduated  from  his  university  with  honors.  He  was,  he 
stated,  of  a  distinctly  literary  turn  of  mind,  and  during  his 
four  years  at  college  imbibed  some  slight  information  con- 

271 


272  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

cerning  the  English  classics  as  well  as  modern  history  and 
metaphysics,  so  that  he  could  talk  quite  glibly  about 
Chaucer,1  Beaumont,  and  Fletcher,2  Thomas  Love  Peacock,3 
and  Ann  Radcliffe,4  and  speak  with  apparent  familiarity 
about  Kant 5  and  Schopenhauer.6 

But,  in  turning  to  self-analysis,  he  stated  that  he  later  saw 
that  his  smattering  of  culture  was  neither  broad  nor  deep; 
that  he  acquired  no  definite  knowledge  of  the  underlying 
principles  of  general  history,  of  economics,  of  languages,  of 
mathematics,  of  physics,  or  of  chemistry ;  that  to  biology  and 
its  allies  he  paid  scarcely  any  attention  at  all,  except  to  take 
a  few  snap  courses ;  that  he  really  secured  only  a  surface  ac- 
quaintance with  polite  English  literature,  mostly  very  modern, 
the  main  part  of  his  time  having  been  spent  in  reading  Steven- 
son 7  and  Kipling.8  He  did  well  in  English  composition,  he 
said,  and  pronounced  his  words  neatly  and  in  a  refined  man- 
ner. He  concluded  the  description  of  his  college  days  by 
saying  that  at  the  end  of  his  course,  twenty-three  years  of 
age,  he  was  handed  an  imitation  parchment  degree  and  pro- 
claimed by  the  president  of  the  college  as  belonging  to  the 
brotherhood  of  educated  men.     On  this  he  commented: 

1  did  not.  I  was  an  imitation  educated  man;  but  though  spurious, 
I  was  a  sufficiently  good  counterfeit  to  pass  current  for  what  I  was 

» Geoffrey  Chaucer  (1340-1400).  Author  of  The  Canterbury  Tales,  a 
series  of  realistic  narratives  in  verse. 

2  Francis  Beaumont  (1584-1616)  and  John  Fletcher  (1579-1625).  Two 
of  the  most  celebrated  of  Shakespeare's  contemporaries.  They  wrote  in 
collaboration,  and  produced  at  least  52  plays. 

"Thomas  Love  Peacock  (1785-1866).  Author  of  a  number  of  highly 
original  and  witty  novels. 

4 Ann  Radcliffe  (1764-1823).  An  English  novelist  who  wrote  chiefly 
of  the  mysterious  and  terrible,  as  in  The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,  her  most 
famous  book. 

6  Immanuel  Kant  (1724-1804).  A  great  German  philosopher,  one  of 
the  most  profound  thinkers  who  ever  lived. 

•Arthur  Schopenhauer  (1788-1860).  A  German  philosopher  noted  for 
his  pessimistic  beliefs. 

'Robert  Louis  Stevenson  (1850-1894).  Novelist,  essayist,  poet  and 
traveler,  noted  for  his  personal  appeal  and  the  charm  of  his  style. 

"Rudyard  Kipling  (1865 — ).  A  popular  present-day  novelist,  short 
story  writer  and  poet. 


A  SUCCESSFUL  FAILURE  273 

declared  to  oe.  Apart  from  a  little  Latin,  considerable  training  in 
writing  the  English  language,  and  a  great  deal  of  miscellaneous  reading 
of  an  extremely  light  variety,  I  really  had  no  culture  at  all.  I  could 
not  speak  an  idiomatic  sentence  in  French  or  German.  I  had  only  the 
vaguest  ideas  about  applied  science  or  mechanics  and  no  thorough 
knowledge  about  anything;  but  I  was  supposed  to  be  an  educated  man, 
and  on  this  stock  in  trade  I  have  done  business  ever  since,  with  the 
added  capital  of  a  degree  of  LL.B.  Now,  since  graduation,  twenty-seven 
years  ago,  I  have  given  no  time  to  the  systematic  study  of  any  subject 
except  law.  I  have  read  no  serious  works  dealing  with  either  history, 
sociology,  economics,  art,  or  philosophy.  I  have  rarely  read  over  again 
any  of  the  masterpieces  of  English  literature  with  which  I  had  at  least 
a  bowing  acquaintance  when  at  college.  Even  this  last  sentence  I  must 
qualify  to  the  extent  of  admitting  that  now  I  see  that  this  acquaintance 
was  largely  vicarious,  and  that  I  frequently  read  more  criticism  than 
literature. 

I  was  taught  about  Shakespeare,  but  not  Shakespeare.  I  was  in- 
structed in  the  history  of  literature,  but  not  in  literature  itself.  I  knew 
the  names  of  the  works  of  numerous  English  authors  and  knew  what 
Taine9  and  others  thought  about  them,  but  I  knew  comparatively  little 
of  what  was  between  the  covers  of  the  books  themselves.  I  was,  I  find, 
a  student  of  letters  by  proxy.  As  time  went  on  I  gradually  forgot  that 
I  had  not  in  fact  actually  perused  these  volumes,  and  to-day  I  am  accus- 
tomed to  refer  familiarly  to  works  I  have  never  read  at  all. 

I  frankly  confess  that  my  own  ignorance  is  abysmal.  In  the  last 
twenty-seven  years  what  information  I  have  acquired  has  been  picked  up 
principally  from  newspapers  and  magazines;  yet  my  library  table  is 
littered  with  books  on  modern  art  and  philosophy  and  with  essays  on 
literary  and  historical  subjects.  I  do  not  read  them.  They  are  my 
intellectual  window-dressings.  I  talk  about  them  with  others  who,  I 
suspect,  have  not  read  them  either,  and  we  confine  ourselves  to  gen- 
eralities, with  careful  qualifications  of  all  expressed  opinions,  no  matter 
bow  vague  or  elusive. 

This  quotation  is  made  from  slightly  abbreviated  notes  and 
may  be  guilty  of  some  verbal  variation  from  the  text,  but  it  is 
entirely  accurate  as  to  content.  As  I  remember  the  paper, 
the  writer  went  on  to  catalogue  his  educational  shortcomings 
in  the  various  fields  of  interest,  confessing  fundamental  ig- 
norance, save  for  superficial  smatterings  of  information,  of 
art,  history,  biography,  music,  poetry,  politics,  science,  and 
economics.  He  painted  an  amusing  picture  of  the  hollow 
pretense  of  culture  with  which  the  average  man  of  his  type 
covers   his   intellectual    poverty.      Men    of    his   type   speak 

•Hippolyte  Adolphe  Taine   (1828-1893).     A  French  critic,  especially 
noted  for  his  History  of  English  Literature. 


274  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

casually,  he  said,  of  Henry  of  Navarre,10  Beatrice  <T  Este," 
or  Charles  the  Fifth,12  without  knowing  within  two  hundred 
years  when  any  of  them  lived  or  what  was  their  role.  His 
lack  of  knowledge  goes  deeper  than  mere  names  and  dates; 
it  goes,  he  said,  to  the  significance  of  events  themselves.  For 
an  illustation  at  random,  he  knew  nothing  about  what  hap- 
pened on  the  Italian  peninsula  until  Garibaldi,13  and  really 
never  knew  just  who  Garibaldi  was  until  he  read  Trevel- 
yan's14  three  books  on  the  Risorgimento,  the  only  serious 
books  he  had  read  in  years,  and  he  read  them  because  he  had 
taken  a  motor  trip  through  Italy  the  summer  before.  He 
knew  virtually  nothing  of  Spain,  Russia,  Poland,  Turkey, 
Sweden,  Norway,  Denmark,  Holland,  or  Belgium.  He  de- 
scribed his  type  going  to  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House, 
hearing  the  best  music  at  big  prices,  content  to  murmur  vague 
ecstasies  over  Caruso,  in  ignorance  of  who  wrote  the  opera  or 
what  it  is  all  about,  lacking  enough  virile  intellectual  curi- 
osity even  to  spend  an  hour  reading  about  the  opera  in  one  of 
the  many  available  hand-books. 

Coming  to  the  vital  matters  of  public  affairs,  he  confessed 
that,  although  holding  a  prominent  place  on  the  citizens' 
committee  at  election-time,  he  knew  nothing  definite  about 
the  city's  departments  or  its  fiscal  administration.  He  could 
not  direct  a  poor  man  to  the  place  where  he  might  obtain 
relief.  He  knew  the  city  hall  by  sight,  but  had  never  been 
in  it.  He  had  never  visited  the  Tombs15  or  the  criminal 
courts,  never  entered  a  police  station,  a  fire-house,  or  prison 

"Henry  of  Navarre  (1553-1610).  King  of  Navarre  and  later  King 
of  France,  author  of  the  celebrated  Edict  of  Nantes. 

u  Beatrice  d'Este  (1475-1497).  A  beautiful  and  highly  cultured 
Duchess  of  Milan  who,  in  spite  of  her  early  death,  deeply  influenced  the 
intellectual  leaders  of  her  time. 

a  Charles  the  Fifth  (1500-1558).  A  masterful  and  virile  Emperor  of 
the  Holy  Roman  Empire. 

13  Giuseppe  Garibaldi  (1807-1882).  A  great  Italian  patriot  who  aided 
in  bringing  about  the  unification  of  Italy.  He  was  at  one  time  a  citizen 
of  the  United  States,  and  was  employed  in  a  candle  factory  on  Staten 
Island,  New  York. 

"George  Macaulay  Trevelyan  (1876).  An  English  historian,  author 
of  important  works  on  Garibaldi. 

"  The  Tombs.     A  New  York  City  prison. 


A  SUCCESSFUL  FAILURE  275 

of  the  city.  He  did  not  know  whether  police  magistrates 
were  appointed  or  elected,  nor  in  what  congressional  district 
he  resided.  He  did  not  know  the  name  of  his  alderman,  as- 
semblyman, state  senator,  or  representative  in  Congress.  He 
did  not  know  who  was  head  of  the  street-cleaning,  health, 
fire,  park,  or  water  departments  of  his  city.  He  could  name 
only  five  of  the  members  of  the  Supreme  Court,  three  of  the 
secretaries  in  the  President's  cabinet,  and  only  one  of  the 
congressmen  from  his  State.  He  had  never  studied  save  in 
the  most  superficial  manner  the  single  tax,  minimum  wage, 
free  trade,  protection,  income  tax,  inheritance  tax,  the 
referendum,  the  recall,  and  other  vital  questions. 

Of  the  authorship  of  these  anonymous  confessions  I  know 
nothing.  They  may  have  been  fiction  instead  of  biography, 
for  all  I  know.  But  their  content  would  still  be  true  were 
their  form  fiction.  I  have  recalled  these  confessions  at  length 
because  in  my  judgment  they  present  an  uncomfortably  true 
analysis  of  the  average  American  college  graduate's  mind, 
his  range  of  interests,  and  his  grasp  of  those  fundamentals 
which  underlie  a  citizen 's  worth  in  a  democracy.  It  is  from 
the  college  graduates  of  this  country  that  we  must  look  for 
our  leaders  in  the  complex  and  baffling  years  ahead,  and  it  is 
a  matter  of  the  gravest  concern  to  the  country  if  we  are 
raising  up  a  generation  of  men,  into  whose  hands  leadership 
will  pass,  whose  minds  have  been  atrophied  by  superficial 
study,  whose  imagination  is  unlit,  who  have  an  apathetic 
indifference  toward  the  supreme  issues  of  our  political,  social, 
and  industrial  life,  who  lack  capacity  and  background  for 
the  analysis  of  broad  questions  and  for  creative  thinking.  If 
these  confessions  of  "The  Goldfish"  papers  tell  a  true  story, 
if  we  are  failing  to  produce  a  leader  class  adequate  to  meet 
the  needs  of  the  present  time,  as  it  seems  to  me  there  is  sound 
evidence  to  prove,  then  it  behooves  us  to  reexamine,  reconceive, 
and  reorganize  our  colleges. 

If  we  are  to  raise  up  adequate  leadership  for  the  future, 
our  colleges  must  contrive  to  give  to  students  a  genuinely 
liberal  education  that  will  make  them  intelligent  citizens  of 
the  world;  an  education  that  will  make  the  student  at  home 


276  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

in  the  modern  world,  able  to  work  in  harmony  with  the 
dominant  forces  of  his  age,  not  at  cross-purposes  to  them; 
an  education  that  will  acquaint  him  with  the  physical,  social, 
economic,  and  political  aspects,  laws,  and  forces  of  his  world  ; 
an  education  that  will  furnish  to  the  student  that  adequate 
background  and  primary  information  needed  for  the  in- 
terpretation of  current  life;  an  education  that  will  help  the 
student  to  plot  out  the  larger  world  beyond  the  campus;  an 
education  that  will  give  the  student  an  interest  in  those  events 
and  issues  in  which  people  generally  are  concerned ;  an  edu- 
cation that  will  enable  the  student  to  give  intelligent  and 
informed  consideration  to  the  significant  political  and  eco- 
nomic problems  of  American  life;  an  education  that  will 
provide  the  student  with  a  sort  of  Baedeker's 16  guide  to 
civilization;  in  short,  an  education  that  will  make  for  that 
spacious-minded  type  of  citizen  which  alone  can  bring  ade- 
quate leadership  to  a  democracy. 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  Apply  the  writer's  criticism  to  work  done  in  school. 

2.  What  should  be  the  purpose  of  public  school  education1? 

3.  What    advantage   does   the   writer   gain   by   quoting  from   the 

"successful  failure"  ? 

4.  Why  does  the  writer  give  only  a  resume  of  some  of  the  words 

of  the  "successful  failure"1? 

5.  What  is  real  culture? 

6.  What  is  the  difference  between  "passing"  and  "learning"? 

7.  What  is  an  "imitation  parchment  degree"? 

8.  How  long  should  a  person  pursue  systematic  study? 

9.  What  principles  should  guide  a  person  in  reading  books? 

10.  What   is   the   difference   between   being   "taught   about    Shake- 

speare" and  being  "taught  Shakespeare"? 

11.  What  is  the  proper  attitude  toward  newspaper  reading? 

12.  What  is  "intellectual  window-dressing"? 

13.  What  should  one  know  of  history? 

14.  What  should  one  know  concerning  various  lands? 

15.  On  what  should  real  appreciation  of  music  depend? 

"Karl  Baedeker   (1801-1859).     The  originator  of  Baedeker's  Guide 
Books  to  various  lands. 


A  SUCCESSFUL  FAILURE 


277 


16.  How  should  education  contribute  to  political  life? 

17.  What  is  the  importance  of  education  in  the  United  States? 

18.  What  is  the  basis  of  real  leadership? 

19.  Make  a  list  of  the  "vital  matters  of  public  affair"  on  which  the 

writer  believes  people  should  be  informed. 

20.  On  how  many  of  these  subjects  are  you  informed? 


SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 


1.  My  Own  Scholarship 

2.  My  School  Career 

3.  Public  School  Scholarship 

4.  Real  Study 

5.  The  Passing  Mark 

6.  The  Best  Teachers 

7.  The  Study  of  History 

8.  Good  Reading 

9.  The  Study  of  Governments 
10.  The  Purpose  of  Education 


11. 
12. 
13. 
14. 
15. 
16. 
17. 


Learning  a  Foreign  Language 
The  Value  of  Science 
Reading  Shakespeare 
Studying  Music 
Newspaper  Reading 
The  Use  of  a  Library 
A  Real  Student 

18.  An  Educated  Citizen 

19.  A  Good  School 

20.  Systematic  Study 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

If  you  cannot  quote  from  the  words  of  written  articles  you  can 
at  least  quote  from  what  people  have  said  in  conversation.  You 
can  also  make  full  use  of  your  own  experience.  Begin  your  essay, 
as  Mr.  Frank  begins  his,  by  making  some  statement  of  actual  expe- 
rience. When  you  have  done  this  add  original  comments  that  will 
lead,  in  the  end,  to  a  wise  suggestion  for  the  future.  Both  by  the 
use  of  the  pronoun  "I,"  and  by  a  certain  informality  of  style,  make 
your  work  personal. 


THE  DROLLERIES  OF  CLOTHES 

By  AGNES   REPPLIER 

(1858 — ).  One  of  the  most  noted  American  essayists. 
Among  her  books  are:  Essays  in  Miniature;  Essays  in  Idleness; 
In  the  Dozy  Hours;  A  Happy  Half  Century;  Americans  and 
Others. 

Miss  Agnes  Repplier  for  many  years  has  kept  her  high  place  as  one 
of  the  most  popular  American  essayists.  She  has  written  upon  a  great 
variety  of  subjects,  and  always  with  charm  and  substantial  thought. 
The  essay  on  The  Drolleries  of  Clothes  shows  with  how  much  good  spirit 
one  may  write  even  a  critical  essay. 

In  that  engaging  volume,  "The  Vanished  Pomps  of  Yes- 
terday," Lord  Frederic  Hamilton,1  commenting  on  the  beauty 
and  grace  of  the  Austrian  women,  observes  thoughtfully: 
"In  the  far-off  seventies  ladies  did  not  huddle  themselves 
into  a  shapeless  mass  of  abbreviated  oddments  of  material. 
They  dressed,  and  their  clothes  fitted  them.  A  woman  upon 
whom  nature  has  bestowed  a  good  figure  was  able  to  display 
her  gifts  to  the  world." 

That  a  woman  to  whom  nature  had  been  less  kind  was 
compelled  to  display  her  deficiencies  is  a  circumstance  ignored 
by  Hamilton,  who,  being  a  man  of  the  world  and  a  man  of 
fashion,  regarded  clothes  as  the  insignia  of  caste.  The  costly 
costumes,  the  rich  and  sweeping  draperies  in  which  he  de- 
lighted, were  not  easy  of  imitation.  The  French  ladies  who 
followed  the  difficult  lead  of  the  Empress  Eugenia  2  supported 
the  transparent  whiteness  of  their  billowy  skirts  with  at  least 

1Lord  Frederic  Hamilton  (1856 — ).  An  English  diplomat  and  editor. 
He  has  travelled  in  many  lands.  Among  his  works  are:  The  Holiday 
Adventures  of  Mr.  P.  J.  Davenant ;  Lady  Eleanor;  The  Vanished 
Pomps  of  Yesterday. 

'Empress  Eugenia  (1826-1920).  A  Spanish  Countess  who  in  1853 
became  the  wife  of  Napoleon  III  of  France  and  the  natural  leader 
of  French  society. 

278 


THE  DROLLERIES  OF  CLOTHES  279 

a  dozen  fine,  sheer  petticoats.  Now  it  is  obvious  that  no  wo- 
man of  the  working  classes  (except  a  blanchisseuse  de  fin  3  who 
might  presumably  wear  her  customers'  laundry)  could  afford 
a  dozen  white  petticoats.  But  when  it  comes  to  stripping  off  a 
solitary  petticoat,  no  one  is  too  poor  or  too  plain  to  be  in  the 
fashion.  When  it  comes  to  clipping  a  dress  at  the  knee,  the 
factory  girl  is  as  fashionable  as  the  banker's  daughter,  and 
far  more  at  her  ease.  Her  "abbreviated  oddments"  are  a 
convenience  in  the  limited  spaces  of  the  mill,  and  she  is 
hardier  to  endure  exposure.  She  thanks  the  kindly  gods  who 
have  fitted  the  fashions  to  her  following,  and  she  takes  a 
few  more  inches  off  her  solitary  garment  to  make  sure  of 
being  in  the  style. 

Not  that  women  of  any  class  regard  heat  or  cold,  comfort 
or  discomfort,  as  a  controlling  factor  in  dress.  In  this  regard 
they  are  less  highly  differentiated  from  the  savage  than  ar& 
men,  who,  with  advancing  civilization,  have  modified  their 
attire  into  something  like  conformity  to  climate  and  to  season. 
The  savage,  even  the  savage  who,  like  the  Tierra  del  Fuegian,4 
lives  in  a  cold  country,  considers  clothes  less  as  a  covering 
than  as  an  adornment.  So  also  do  women,  who  take  a  simple 
primitive  delight  in  garments  devoid  of  utilitarianism.  For 
the  past  half-dozen  years  American  women  have  worn  furs 
during  the  sweltering  heat  of  American  summers.  Perhaps 
by  the  sea,  or  in  the  mountains,  a  chill  day  may  now  and 
then  warrant  this  costume;  but  on  the  burning  city 
streets  the  fur-clad  females,  red  and  panting,  have  been 
pitiful  objects  to  behold.  They  suffered,  as  does  the  Polar 
bear  in  August  in  the  zoo;  but  they  suffered  irrationally, 
and  because  they  lacked  the  wit  to  escape  from  self-inflicted 
torment. 

For  the  past  two  winters  women  have  worn  fur  coats  or 
capes  which  swathed  the  upper  part  of  their  bodies  in  volum- 
inous folds,  and  stopped  short  at  the  knee.  From  that  point 
down,  the  thinnest  of  silk  stockings  have  been  all  the  covering 

8  Blanchisseuse  de  fin.     A  laundress. 

*  Tierra  del  Fuegian.  An  inhabitant  of  the  archipelago  at  the  extreme 
southern  end  of  South  America. 


280  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

permitted.  The  theory  that,  if  one  part  of  the  body  be 
protected,  another  part  may  safely  and  judiciously  be  ex- 
posed, has  ever  been  dear  to  the  female  heart.  It  may  be 
her  back,  her  bosom,  or  her  legs  which  the  woman  selects  to 
exhibit.  In  any  case  she  affirms  that  the  uncovered  portions 
of  her  anatomy  never  feel  the  cold.  If  they  do,  she  endures 
the  discomfort  with  the  stoicism  of  the  savage  who  keeps  his 
ornamental  scars  open  with  irritants,  and  she  is  nerved  to 
endurance  by  the  same  impelling  motive. 

This  motive  is  not  personal  vanity.  Vanity  has  had  little 
to  do  with  savage,  barbarous,  and  civilized  customs.  The 
ancient  Peruvians  who  deformed  their  heads,  pressing  them 
out  of  shape ;  the  Chinese  who  deform  their  feet,  bandaging 
them  into  balls;  the  Africans  who  deform  their  mouthsv 
stretching  them  with  wooden  discs ;  the  Borneans  who 
deform  their  ears,  dragging  the  lobes  below  their  shoul- 
der blades;  the  European  and  American  women  who 
deformed  their  bodies,  tightening  their  stays  to  produce  the 
celebrated  "hour-glass"  waist,  have  all  been  victims  of  some- 
thing more  powerful  than  vanity,  the  inexorable  decrees  of 
fashion. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  female  mind  is  singularly  devoid  of 
illusions.  Women  do  not  think  their  layers  of  fat  or  their 
protruding  collar  bones  beautiful  and  seductive.  They  dis- 
play them  because  fashion  makes  no  allowance  for  personal 
defects,  and  they  have  not  yet  reached  that  stage  of  civiliza- 
tion which  achieves  artistic  sensibility,  which  ordains  and 
preserves  the  eternal  law  of  fitness.  They  know,  for  ex- 
ample, that  nuns,  waitresses,  and  girls  in  semi-military 
uniforms  look  handsomer  than  they  are,  because  of  straight 
lines  and  adroit  concealment;  but  they  fail  to  derive  from 
this  knowledge  any  practical  guidance. 

I  can  remember  when  "pull-back"  skirts  and  bustles  were 
in  style.  They  were  uncomfortable,  unsanitary,  and  un- 
sightly. Their  wearers  looked  grotesquely  deformed,  and 
knew  it.  They  submitted  to  fate,  and  prayed  for  a  speedy 
deliverance.     The  fluctuations  of  fashion  are  alternately  a 


"The  fluctuations  of  fashion  are  alternately  a  grievance  and  a 

solace."     (page  280) 


THE  DEOLLEBIES  OF  CLOTHES  281 

grievance  and  a  solace.  John  Evelyn,5  commenting  on  the 
dress  worn  by  Englishmen  in  the  time  of  Charles  the  First,8 
says  that  it  was  "a  comely  and  manly  habit,  too  good  to 
hold."  It  did  not  hold  because  the  Puritans,  who  saw  no 
reason  why  manliness  should  be  comely,  swept  it  aside.  The 
bustle  was  much  too  bad  to  hold.  It  grew  beautifully  less 
every  year,  and  then  suddenly  disappeared.  Many  dry  eyes 
witnessed  its  departure. 

If  abhorrence  of  a  fashion  cannot  keep  women  from  slav- 
ishly following  it,  they  naturally  remain  unmoved  by  outside 
counsel  and  criticism.  For  years  the  doctors  exhausted  them- 
selves proclaiming  the  disastrous  consequences  of  tight-lacing, 
which  must  certainly  be  held  responsible  for  the  obsolete 
custom  of  fainting.  For  years  satirists  and  moralists  united 
in  attacking  the  crinoline.  In  Watson's  Annals,  1856,  a 
virtuous  Philadelphian  published  a  solemn  protest  against 
Christian  ladies  wearing  enormous  hoops  to  church,  thereby 
scandalizing  and,  what  was  worse,  inconveniencing  the  male 
congregation.  When  the  Great  War  started  a  wave  of  fatuous 
extravagance,  it  was  solemnly  reported  that  Mrs.  Lloyd 
George  was  endeavoring  to  dissuade  the  wives  of  workingmen 
from  buying  silk  stockings  and  fur  coats.  When  the  Great 
Peace  let  loose  upon  us  the  most  fantastic  absurdities  known 
for  half  a  century,  the  papers  bristled  with  such  hopeful 
headlines  as  these:  "Club  Women  Approve  Sensible  Styles 
of  Dress,"  "Social  Leaders  Condemn  Indecorous  Fashions," 
"Crusade  in  Churches  Against  Prevailing  Scantiness  of 
Attire,"  and  so  on,  and  so  on  indefinitely. 

And  to  what  purpose?  The  unrest  of  a  rapidly  changing 
world  broke  down  the  old  supremacies,  smashed  all  appre- 
ciable standards,  and  left  us  only  a  vague  clutter  of  impres- 
sions.   When  a  woman 's  dress  no  longer  indicates  her  fortune, 


6 


John  Evelyn  (1620-1706).  The  author  of  a  diary  kept  from  1624- 
1706  in  which  he  gives  a  wealth  of  information  concerning  life  in  his 
period. 

6  Charles  I  (1600-1649).  King  of  England  from  1625  to  1649.  He 
was  overthrown  and  beheaded  by  the  adherents  of  the  parliamentary, 
or  Puritan,  forces. 


282  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

station,  age,  or  honesty,  we  have  reached  the  twilight  of  taste ; 
but  such  dim,  confused  periods  are  recurrent  in  the  history 
of  sociology.  The  girl  who  works  hard  and  decently  for 
daily  bread,  but  who  walks  the  streets  with  her  little  nose 
whitened  like  concrete,  and  her  little  cheeks  reddened  like 
brick-dust,  and  her  little  under-nourished  body  painfully 
evidenced  to  the  crowd,  is  tremulously  imitating  the  woman 
of  the  town;  but  the  most  inexperienced  eye  catalogues  her 
at  a  glance.  Let  us  be  grateful  for  her  sake  if  she  bobs  her 
hair,  for  that  is  a  cleanly  custom,  whereas  the  great  knobs 
which  she  formerly  wore  over  her  ears  harbored  nests  of 
vermin.  It  is  one  of  the  comedies  of  fashion  that  short  hair, 
which  half  a  century  ago  indicated  strongmindedness,  now 
represents  the  utmost  levity;  just  as  the  bloomers  of  1852 
stood  for  stern  reform,  and  the  attempted  trousers  of  1918 
stood  for  lawlessness.  Both  were  rejected  by  women  who 
have  never  been  unaware  that  the  skirt  carries  with  it  an 
infinite  variety  of  possibilities. 

A  winning  wave,  deserving  note, 
In  the  tempestuous  petticoat, 

wrote  Evelyn's  contemporary,  Herrick,7  who  was  more  con- 
cerned with  the  comeliness  of  Julia's  clothes  than  with  his 
own. 

There  is  still  self-revelation  in  dress,  but  not  personal  self- 
revelation.  We  may  still  apply  the  test  of  costume  to  people 
and  to  periods,  but  not  safely  to  individuals,  who  suffer  from 
coercion.  Women's  ready-made  clothes  are  becoming  more 
and  more  like  liveries.  A  dozen  shop  windows,  a  dozen  es- 
tablishments, display  the  same  model  over  and  over  again, 
the  materials  and  prices  varying,  the  gown  always  the  same. 
The  lines  may  lack  distinction,  and  the  colors  may  lack 
serenity ;  but  then  distinction  and  serenity  are  not  the  great 
underlying  qualities  of  our  fretted  age.  The  "abbreviated 
oddments,"  with  their  strange  admixture  of  the  bizarre  and 
the  commonplace,  strike  a  purely  modern  note.     They  are 

T  Robert  Herrick  (1591-1674).  An  English  poet,  author  of  many 
charming  poems,  one  of  which  is  Gather  Ye  Eosebuds  While  Ye  May. 


THE  DROLLERIES  OF  CLOTHES  283 

democratic.  They  are  as  appropriate,  or,  I  might  say,  as 
inappropriate,  to  one  class  of  women  as  to  another.  They  are 
helping,  more  than  we  can  know,  to  level  the  barriers  of  caste. 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  Summarize  what  the  essay  says  in  criticism  of  modern  fashions. 

2.  What  does  the  essay  say  concerning  fashions  in  the  past? 

3.  Summarize  Miss  Repplier's  suggestions  for  ideal  costumes. 

4.  Explain  why  the  writer  refers  to  the  fashions  of  savages. 

5.  By  what  means  does  the  writer  give  interest  to  her  work? 

6.  How    does   the   essay    differ   from   an    ordinary    informational 

article? 

7.  What  advantage  does  the  writer  gain  by  referring  to  various 

works  of  literature? 

8.  How  does  the  writer  avoid  harshness  of  criticism? 

9.  What  is  the  general  plan  of  the  essay? 

10.  What  does  the  article  show  concerning  Miss  Repplier? 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 


1.  Fashions  for  Men 

11.  Children's  Clothes 

2    Jewelry 

12.  Style  in  Shoes 

3.  Good  Manners 

13.  Social  Customs 

4.  Table  Etiquette 

14.  Street  Behavior 

5.  Neckties 

15.  Ribbons 

6.  Dancing 

16.  School  Yells 

7.  Spoken  English 

17.  Slang 

8.  Stockings 

18.  Hair  Dressing 

9.  Buttons 

19.  The  Use  of  Mirrors 

10.  Exercise 

20.  Walking 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

Your  object  is  to  write,  in  a  critical  vein,  about  some  modern 
custom,  and  to  write  without  bitterness.  Embody  your  criticism  in 
mild  humor.  Find  something  good  even  in  the  midst  of  what  is  bad. 
Above  all,  draw  definite  examples  from  literature  and  history,  in 
order  to  make  your  thought  have  weight. 


POETIC  PROSE 

CHILDREN 

By  YUKIO  OZAKI 

Madame  Osaki  is  the  wife  of  a  former  mayor  of  Tokyo  and 
former  Minister  of  Justice  in  the  Okuma  Cabinet.  She  writes 
for  many  magazines.  Among  her  books  are:  Warriors  of  Old 
Japan;    The  Japanese  Fairy  Book;    Bomances  of  Old  Japan. 

The  essay  is  so  natural  an  expression  of  the  writer's  personality  that 
it  has  much  in  common  with  lyric  poetry.  Both  the  essay  and  the  lyric, 
at  their  best,  are  ardent  expressions  of  self.  When  the  emotion  in 
either  is  deep  and  genuine  the  language  takes  on  richness  of  rhythm, 
and  the  effect  becomes  entirely  poetic.  Many  of  the  best  essays  contain 
passages  that  in  all  except  meter  and  rime  are  poems, — prose  poems. 

Children  is  an  example  of  highly  poetic  prose. 

Let  us  love  our  children  serenely,  devotedly,  even  pas- 
sionately. Surely  in  their  innocence  and  angelic  simplicity 
they  play  on  the  threshold  of  heaven.  Let  us  hush  our  noisy 
activities  and  stale  anxieties,  and  under  the  trees  and  in  the 
open  that  they  love  listen  to  the  words  of  refreshing  wisdom 
dropping  like  jewels  from  their  naive  lips. 

Let  us  be  willing  to  sit  at  their  dainty  little  feet,  so  unused 
to  the  dusty  roads  of  this  world,  and  learn  from  them  divinest 
lessons.  Let  us  with  uplifted  hearts  realize  our  responsibility 
when  with  unconscious  humility  they  accept  us  as  their  guides 
in  the  sweet,  fresh  morning  of  their  lives. 

O  sister-mothers  in  the  world,  let  us  awaken  to  a  deeper 
sense  of  this  sublime  trust,  our  high  charge  in  the  care  of  these 
immortal  treasures,  only  for  a  little  while,  such  a  little  while, 
given  into  our  keeping !  Let  us  make  our  hearts,  our  minds, 
our  consciences  worthy  of  these  transcendent  marvels  of  life ! 

Oh,  joy  of  joys!  Oh,  purest  wonder!  How  often  my 
children  lift  the  invisible  veils  that  hide  undreamed-of  case- 

284 


CHILDREN 


285 


meiits  opening  out  on  luminous  vistas  of  the  mystical  world 
in  which  they  wander,  roaming  fancy-free  with  keen  and 
wondering  delight! 

Take  me  with  you,  oh,  take  me  with  you,  children  mine, 
when  with  bright  eyes  and  with  kindled  imagination,  all  spirit, 
fire  and  dew,  you  sally  forth  on  these  highroads  of  discovery, 
to  the  elysiums  of  your  day-dreams,  peopled  by  the  souls  of 
birds,  animals,  flowers  and  pictures  in  happy  communion! 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  Point  out  examples  of  rhythmical  sentences. 

2.  Point  out  figures  of  speech. 

3.  Point  out  words  that  have  been  chosen  because  of  their  charm, 

or  their  suggestive  power. 

4.  Show  how  the  selection  rises  in  emotion. 

5.  How  do  children  "play  on  the  threshold  of  heaven"? 

6.  What  "refreshing  wisdom"  do  children  express? 

7.  What  "divinest  lessons"  may  we  learn  from  children? 

8.  What  "undreamed  of  casements"  do  children  open? 

9.  Explain  the  last  paragraph. 

10.  Point  out  all  the  respects  in  which  this  selection  is  like  a  poem. 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 


1.  The  Baby 

11.  Dreams 

2.  The  Helpless 

12.  Beautiful  Views 

3.  The  Old 

13.  The  Sunshine 

4.  Father  and  Mother 

14.  Summer 

5.  Grandmother 

15.  Favorite  Flowers 

6.  Home 

16.  Birds 

7.  Playmates 

17.  My  Dog 

8.  Memories 

18.  The  Garden 

9.  Holidays 

19.  Snow 

10.  Ambitions 

20.  Sunrise 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 


In  order  to  write  poetic   prose  you   must   write  from   genuine 
emotion.    Write  about  something  that  you  really  love.    Choose  your 


286  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

words  so  that  they  will  most  clearly  reveal  your  feelings.  Think 
of  the  deeper  meanings  and  of  the  greater  values  of  your  subject. 
Make  your  essay  increase  steadily  in  power  until  the  very  end. 
Make  it,  like  a  good  lyric  poem,  reveal  the  writer's  best  self  in  one 
of  his  noblest  moments. 


SHIPS  THAT  LIFT  TALL  SPIRES  OF  CANVAS* 

By   EALPH   D.   PAINE 

(1871 — ).  An  American  author  and  journalist,  especially 
noted  for  excellent  work  as  a  war  correspondent.  Among  his 
many  books  concerning  the  sea  are  the  following:  The  Praying 
Skipper,  and  Other  Stories;  The  Ships  and  Sailors  of  Old 
Salem;  The  Judgments  of  the  Sea;  The  Adventures  of  Captain 
O'Shea;  The  Fighting  Fleets;  The  Fight  for  a  Free  Sea.  He 
is  a  frequent  contributor  to  magazines. 

Ships  That  Lift  Tall  Spires  of  Canvas  is  practically  a  poem,  although 
it  is  written  in  prose.  It  is  an  emotional  expression  of  admiration  for  the 
sailing  vessels  of  the  past,  and  for  the  gallant  sailors  who  manned 
them.  It  is  evident  that  the  author  is  familiar  with  many  stories  of 
romantic  voyages  and  grim  adventure  on  the  deep,  and  that  his  emotion 
springs  from  his  knowledge.  That  genuineness  of  feeling  did  much  to 
lead  him  to  choose  suggestive  words  and  to  write  in  balanced  and 
rhythmical  sentences.  All  good  style  conies  in  large  part  from  earnest- 
ness of  thought  or  depth  of  emotion,  and  in  smaller  degree  from 
knowledge  of  fhe  rhetorical  means  of  conveying  thought  or  emotion. 

Oh,  night  and  day  the  ships  come  in, 

The  ships  both  great  and  small, 

But  never  one  among  them  brings 

A  word  of  him  at  all. 

From  Port  o'  Spain  and  Trinidad, 

From  Rio  or  Funchal, 

And  along  the  coast  of  Barbary. 

Steam  has  not  banished  from  the  deep  sea  the  ships  that 
lift  tall  spires  of  canvas  to  win  their  way  from  port  to  port. 
The  gleam  of  their  topsails  recalls  the  centuries  in  which  men 
wrought  with  stubborn  courage  to  fashion  fabrics  of  wood 
and  cordage  that  would  survive  the  enmity  of  the  implacable 
ocean  and  make  the  winds  obedient.  Their  genius  was  un- 
sung, their  hard  toil  forgotten,  but  with  each  generation  the 
sailing  ship  became  nobler  and  more  enduring,  until  it  was 
a  perfect  thing.  Its  great  days  live  in  memory  with  a  pe- 
culiar atmosphere  of  romance.     Its  humming  shrouds  were 

*  From  ' '  Lost  Ships  and  Lonely  Seas, ' '  by  Ralph  D.  Paine.     Copy- 
right by  the  Century  Co. 

287 


288  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

vibrant  with  the  eternal  call  of  the  sea,  and  in  a  phantom 
fleet  pass  the  towering  East  Indiaman,  the  hard-driven  At- 
lantic packet,  and  the  gracious  clipper  that  fled  before  the 
Southern  trades. 

A  hundred  years  ago  every  bay  and  inlet  of  the  New 
England  coast  were  building  ships  that  fared  bravely  forth 
to  the  West  Indies,  to  the  roadsteads  of  Europe,  to  the 
mysterious  havens  of  the  Far  East.  They  sailed  in  peril  of 
pirate  and  privateer,  and  fought  these  rascals  as  sturdily  as 
they  battled  with  wicked  weather.  Coasts  were  unlighted, 
the  seas  uncharted,  and  navigation  was  mostly  guesswork, 
but  these  seamen  were  the  flower  of  an  American  merchant 
marine  whose  deeds  are  heroic  in  the  nation's  story.  Great 
hearts  in  little  ships,  they  dared  and  suffered  with  simple, 
uncomplaining  fortitude.  Shipwreck  was  an  incident,  and  to 
be  adrift  in  lonely  seas  or  cast  upon  a  barbarous  shore  was 
sadly  commonplace.  They  lived  the  stuff  that  made  fiction 
after  they  were  gone. 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  Make  a  list  of  the  most  effective  adjectives  in  the  selection. 

2.  Make  a  list  of  the  words  that  do  most  to  suggest  the  sea. 

3.  Read  aloud  the  most  effective  sentences. 

4.  Point  out  examples  of  balanced  construction. 

5.  Show  that  the  author  has  indicated  the  entire  field  of  the  subject. 

6.  In  what  ways  is  the  selection  poetic? 

7.  What  famous  books  tell  stories  of  sailing  vessels'? 

8.  What  books  of  the  sea  did  Fenimore  Cooper  write? 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 


1. 

Old  Gardens 

11. 

My  Grandmother 

2. 

Farm  Houses 

12. 

Old  Letters 

3. 

My  Childhood  Home 

13. 

A  Happy  Day 

4. 

Mothers 

14. 

The  Old  Soldier 

5. 

Flowers 

15. 

A  Relic 

6. 

Memories 

16. 

A  Familiar  Street 

7. 

Old  School-books 

17. 

Changes 

8. 

Old  Friends 

18. 

Souvenirs 

9. 

Childhood  Games 

19. 

Skating 

10. 

Favorite  Stories 

20. 

Summer  Days 

e 


o3 
0) 

CO 
V 


03 
o 

"o3 

CP 


+3 

c 


CU 

CO 

3 
O 
Fh 

co 
bC 
S3 


SHIPS  THAT  LIFT  TALL  SPIKES  OF  CANVAS  289 


DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

The  subject  that  you  select  must  be  one  concerning  which  you 
know  a  great  deal.  It  must  be  one  that  exists  not  only  in  your 
brain  but  also  in  your  heart. 

When  you  have  selected  your  subject  make  a  list  of  the  points 
that  appeal  to  you  most,  and  that  will  represent  every  side  of  the 
subject. 

When  you  write,  let  your  emotion  guide  your  pen.  At  the  same 
time  make  every  effort  to  select  words  that  will  be  full  of  suggestive 
power.  Write  easily  and  rhythmically,  and  let  your  work  end,  as 
Mr.  Palne's  does,  in  an  especially  effective  sentenee. 


PERSONALITY  IN  CORRESPONDENCE 

By  THEODORE  EOOSEVELT  and  AUGUSTUS  SAINT-GAUDENS 

(1858-1919).  Twenty-sixth  President  of  the  United  States. 
One  of  the  most  vigorous,  courageous  and  picturesque  figures 
in  the  public  life  of  his  day.  Soon  after  his  graduation  from. 
Harvard,  and  from  Columbia  Laiv  School  he  entered  public 
life,  and  gave  invaluable  service  in  many  positions,  becoming 
President  in  1901,  and  again  in  1904.  His  work  as  an  organizer 
of  the  ' '  Rough  Eiders, ' '  his  skill  in  horsemanship,  his  courage 
as  an  explorer  and  hunter,  and  his  staunch  patriotism  and 
high  ideals  all  made  him  both  interesting  and  beloved.  His  work 
as  an  author  is  alone  sufficient  to  make  him  great.  Among  his 
many  books  are  The  Winning  of  the  West;  The  Strenuous 
Life;   African  Game  Trails;   True  Americanism. 

(1848-1907).  One  of  the  greatest  American  sculptors.  His 
statues  of  Admiral  Farragut,  Abraham  Lincoln,  The  Puritan, 
Peter  Cooper,  and  General  Sherman  are  noble  examples  of  his 
art.  Many  other  works  of  sculpture,  including  the  beautiful 
"Diana"  on  Madison  Square  Garden  Tower,  New  York,  attest 
his  rare  skill.  He  excelled  in  what  is  called  ' '  relief. ' '  His 
influence  on  American  art  was  remarkably  great.  His  portrait- 
plaque  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  is  especially  interesting  to 
lovers  of  literature. 

The  essay  and  the  friendly  letter  are  closely  related.  It  is  natural 
for  one  who  writes  a  friendly  letter  to  express  himself  freely  and 
intimately,  to  make  wise  or  humorous  comments  on  life,  to  write  medi- 
tatively of  all  the  things  that  interest  him, — in  fact,  to  reveal  himself 
in  full.  To  do  all  that,  even  within  the  limited  form  of  the  letter,  is  to 
write  an  approach  to  an  essay.  Almost  any  one  of  the  essays  in  this 
book  might   have  been  written  as   part   of   a   friendly   letter. 

The  spirit  of  the  essay,  that  of  personality,  should  enter  into  all 
letters  except  those  that  are  purely  formal  in  nature.  In  fact,  the 
amount  of  personality  expressed  in  a  letter  is,  often,  a  measure  of 
the  success  of  the  letter. 

The  following  letters  written  by  Theodore  Roosevelt  and  Augustus 
Saint-Gaudens  are,  in  a  sense,  business  letters.  In  1905  Mr.  Roosevelt 
was  president  of  the  United  States.  He  believed  that  the  coins  o^  the 
United  States,  like  the  coins  of  the  ancient  Greeks,  should  be  beautiful. 
That  he  had  the  highest  respect  for  the  great  sculptor,  Augustus  Saint- 
Gaudens,  is  shown  by  a  letter  that  he  wrote  in  1903  concerning  the' 
impressively  beautiful  statue  of  General  Sherman,  that  now  stands  at 

290 


PERSONALITY  IN  CORRESPONDENCE  21)1 

the  59th  Street  entrance  to  Central  Park,  New  York  City.  In  1905 
Mr.  Roosevelt  met  Mr.  Saint-Gaudens  at  a  dinner  in  Washington  and 
talked  with  him  concerning  the  coinage  of  the  United  States  and  the 
possibility  of  improving  it.  The  letters  given  in  this  book  are  part  of 
the  correspondence  that  followed  this  conversation. 

Both  men  had  serious  purpose  in  writing  and  both  were  intensely 
practical;  yet  each  man  wrote  in  a  manner  that  is  exceedingly  personal. 
The  letters  have  something  of  the  spirit  of  the  essay. 


The  Statue  of  General  Sherman 

White  House 

Washington 

Oyster  Bay,  N.  Y. 
Personal  August  3,  1903. 

My  dear  Mr.  Saint-Gaudens: 

Your  letter  was  a  great  relief  and  pleasure  to  me.    I  had 

been  told  that  it  was  you  personally  who  had  opposed . 

I  have  no  claim  to  be  listened  to  about  these  matters,  save 
such  claim  as  a  man  of  ordinary  cultivation  has.     But  I  do 

think  that  ,  like  Proctor,  has  done  excellent  work  in 

his  wild-beast  figures. 

By  the  way,  I  was  very  glad  that  the  Grant  decision 
in  Washington  went  the  way  it  did.  The  rejected  figure, 
it  seemed  to  me,  fell  between  two  schools.  It  suggested  al- 
legory; and  yet  it  did  not  show  that  high  quality  of  imagi- 
nation which  must  be  had  when  allegory  is  suggested.  The 
figure  that  was  taken  is  the  figure  of  the  great  general,  the 
great  leader  of  men.  It  is  not  the  greatest  type  of  statue 
for  the  very  reason  that  there  is  nothing  of  the  allegorical, 
nothing  of  the  highest  type  of  the  imaginative  in  it.  But 
it  is  a  good  statue.  Now  to  my  mind  your  Sherman  is  the 
greatest  statue  of  a  commander  in  existence.  But  I  can 
say  with  all  sincerity  that  I  know  of  no  man — of  course 
of  no  one  living — who  could  have  done  it.  To  take  grim, 
homely,  old  Sherman,  the  type  and  ideal  of  a  democratic 
general,  and  put  with  him  an  allegorical  figure  such  as  you 
did,  could  result  in  but  one  of  two  ways — a  ludicrous  failure 
or  striking  the  very  highest  note  of  the  iculptor's  art.    Thrice 


292  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

over  for  the  good  fortune  of  our  countrymen,  it  was  given  to 
you  to  strike  this  highest  note. 

Always  faithfully  yours, 
Theodore  Roosevelt. 
Mr.  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens, 
Aspet, Windsor,  Vermont. 

The    Roosevelt- Saint-Grau  dens    Correspondence     Concerning 

Coinage 

The  White  House 

Washington 

Nov.  6,  1905. 
My  dear  Saint-Gaudens: 

How  is  that  old  gold  coinage  design  getting  along?  J 
want  to  make  a  suggestion.  It  seems  to  me  worth  while  to 
try  for  a  really  good  coinage ;  though  I  suppose  there  will 
be  a  revolt  about  it !  I  was  looking  at  some  gold  coins  of 
Alexander  the  Great  to-day,  and  I  was  struck  by  their  high 
relief.  Would  it  not  be  well  to  have  our  coins  in  high  re- 
lief, and  also  to  have  the  rims  raised?  The  point  of  having 
the  rims  raised  would  be,  of  course,  to  protect  the  figure  on 
the  coin ;  and  if  we  have  the  figures  in  high  relief,  like  the 
figures  on  the  old  Greek  coins,  they  will  surely  last  longer. 
What  do  you  think  of  this? 

With  warm  regards. 

Faithfully  yours, 

Theodore  Roosevelt. 
Mr.  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens, 

Windsor,  Vermont. 

Windsor,  Vermont,  Nov.  11,  1905. 
Dear  Mr.  President: 

You  have  hit  the  nail  on  the  head  with  regard  to  the 
coinage.  Of  course  the  great  coins  (and  you  might  almost 
say  the  only  coins)  are  the  Greek  ones  you  speak  of,  just 
as  the  great  medals  are  those  of  the  fifteenth  century  by 
Pisanello  and  Sperandio.     Nothing  would  please  me  more 


V 


Obverse  of  the  ten-dollar  gold 
piece,  in  high  relief,  and  be- 
fore the  addition  of  the  head- 
dress, on  President  Roose- 
velt 's  suggestion. 


Obverse  of  the  ten-dollar  gold 
piece  with  the  Roosevelt 
feather  head-dress.  Before 
the  relief  was  radically  low- 
ered for  minting. 


y 


Liberty  obverse  of  the  twenty- 
dollar  gold  piece  as  finally 
designed.  The  relief,  how- 
ever, was  made  lower  before 
minting. 


Liberty  obverse  of  the  twenty- 
dollar  gold  piece.  The  head- 
dress, President  Roosevelt 's 
idea,  was  later  eliminated  on 
this  figure  as  too  small  to  be 
effective   on  the   actual   coim 


PERSONALITY  IN  CORRESPONDENCE  293 

than  to  make  the  attempt  in  the  direction  of  the  heads  of 
Alexander,  but  the  authorities  on  modern  monetary  require- 
ments would,  I  fear,  "throw  fits,"  to  speak  emphatically,  if 
the  thing  was  done  now.  It  would  be  great  if  it  could  be 
accomplished  and  I  do  not  see  what  the  objection  would  be 
if  the  edges  were  high  enough  to  prevent  rubbing.  Perhaps 
an  inquiry  from  you  would  not  receive  the  antagonistic 
Teply  from  those  who  have  the  say  in  such  matters  that 
would  certainly  be  made  to  me. 

Up  to  the  present  I  have  done  no  work  on  the  actual  models 
for  the  coins,  but  have  made  sketches,  and  the  matter  is 
constantly  in  my  mind.  I  have  about  determined  on  the 
composition  of  one  side,  which  would  contain  an  eagle  very 
much  like  the  one  I  placed  on  your  medal  with  a  modifica- 
tion that  would  be  advantageous.  On  the  other  side  I  would 
place  a  (possibly  winged)  figure  of  liberty  striding  ener- 
getically forward  as  if  on  a  mountain  top  holding  aloft  on 
one  arm  a  shield  bearing  the  Stars  and  Stripes  with  the 
word  "Liberty"  marked  across  the  field,  in  the  other  hand, 
perhaps,  a  flaming  torch.  The  drapery  would  be  flowing 
in  the  breeze.  My  idea  is  to  make  it  a  living  thing  and  typi- 
cal of  progress. 

Tell  me  frankly  what  you  think  of  this  and  what  your  ideas 
may  be.  I  remember  you  spoke  of  the  head  of  an  Indian. 
Of  course  that  is  always  a  superb  thing  to  do,  but  would  it 
be  a  sufficiently  clear  emblem  of  Liberty  as  required  by  law? 

I  send  you  an  old  book  on  coins  which  I  am  certain  you 
will  find  of  interest  while  waiting  for  a  copy  that  I  have 
ordered  from  Europe. 

Faithfully  yours, 

August  Saint-Gaudens. 

The  White  House 

Washington 

Nov.  14,  1905. 
My  dear  Mr.  Saint-Gaudens : 

I  have  your  letter  of  the  11th  instant  and  return  herewith 
the  book  on  coins,  which  I  think  you  should  have  until  you 


294  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

get  the  other  one.  I  have  summoned  all  the  mint  people, 
and  I  am  going  to  see  if  I  cannot  persuade  them  that  coins 
of  the  Grecian  type  but  with  the  raised  rim  will  meet  the 
commercial  needs  of  the  day.  Of  course  I  want  to  avoid  too 
heavy  an  outbreak  of  the  mercantile  classes,  because  after 
all  it  is  they  who  do  use  the  gold.  If  we  can  have  an  eagle 
like  that  on  the  Inauguration  Medal,  only  raised,  I  should 
feel  that  we  would  be  awfully  fortunate.  Don't  you  think 
that  we  might  accomplish  something  by  raising  the  figures 
more  than  at  present  but  not  as  much  as  in  the  Greek  coins  ? 
Probably  the  Greek  coins  would  be  so  thick  that  modern 
banking  houses,  where  they  have  to  pile  up  gold,  would 
simply  be  unable  to  do  so.  How  would  it  do  to  have  a  design 
struck  off  in  a  tentative  fashion — that  is,  to  have  a  model 
made?  I  think  your  Liberty  idea  is  all  right.  Is  it  possi- 
ble to  make  a  Liberty  with  that  Indian  feather  head-dress? 
Would  people  refuse  to  regard  it  as  a  Liberty  ?  The  figure  of 
Liberty  as  you  suggest  would  be  beautiful.  If  we  get  down 
to  bed-rock  facts  would  the  feather  head-dress  be  any  more 
out  of  keeping  with  the  rest  of  Liberty  than  the  canonical 
Phrygian  cap  which  never  is  worn  and  never  has  been  worn 
by  any  free  people  in  the  world? 

Faithfully  yours, 

Theodore  Roosevelt. 
Mr.  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens, 
Windsor,  Vermont. 


Windsor,  Vermont,  Nov.  22,  1905. 
Dear  Mr.  President: 

Thank  you  for  your  letter  of  the  14th  and  the  return 
of  the  book  on  coins. 

I  can  perfectly  well  use  the  Indian  head-dress  on  the 
figure  of  Liberty.  It  should  be  very  handsome.  I  have  been 
at  work  for  the  last  two  days  on  the  coins  and  feel  quite 
enthusiastic  about  it. 

I  enclose  a  copy  of  a  letter  to  Secretary  Shaw  which  ex- 


PERSONALITY  IN  CORRESPONDENCE  295 

plains  itself.     If  you  are  of  my  opinion  and  will  help,  I 
shall  be  greatly  obliged. 

Faithfully  yours, 
August  Saint-Gaudens. 
[Hand-written   postscript.] 

I  think  something  between  the  high  relief  of  the  Greek 
coins  and  the  extreme  low  relief  of  the  modern  work  is 
possible,  and  as  you  suggest,  I  will  make  a  model  with  that 
in  view. 

Windsor,  Vermont,  Nov.  22,  1905. 
Hon.  L.  M.  Shaw, 

Secretary  of  the  Treasury, 
Washington,  D.  C. 
I) ear  Sir: 

I  am  now  engaged  on  the  models  for  the  coinage.  The  law 
calls  for,  viz.,  "On  one  side  there  shall  be  an  impression 
emblematic  of  liberty,  with  an  inscription  of  the  word  'lib- 
erty' and  the  year  of  the  coinage."  It  occurs  to  me  that 
the  addition  on  this  side  of  the  coins  of  the  word  "Justice" 
(or  "Law,"  preferably  the  former)  would  add  force  as 
well  as  elevation  to  the  meaning  of  the  composition.  At 
one  time  the  words  "In  God  we  trust"  were  placed  on  the 
coins.  I  am  not  aware  that  there  was  authorization  for  that, 
but  I  may  be  mistaken. 

Will  you  kindly  inform  me  whether  what  I  suggest  is 
possible. 

Yours  very  truly, 

Augustus  Saint-Gaudens. 

The  White  House 

Washington 

Nov.  24,  1905. 
My  dear  Mr.  Saint-Gaudens : 

This  is  first  class.  I  have  no  doubt  we  can  get  permission 
to  put  on  the  word  "Justice,"  and  I  firmly  believe  that  you 
can  evolve  something  that  will  not  only  be  beautiful  from 


296  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

the  artistic  standpoint,  but  that,  between  the  very  high  re- 
lief of  the  Greek  and  the  very  low  relief  of  the  modern  coins, 
will  be  adapted  both  to  the  mechanical  necessities  of  our 
mint  production  and  the  needs  of  modern  commerce,  and 
yet  will  be  worthy  of  a  civilized  people — which  is  not  true 
of  our  present  coins. 

Faithfully  yours, 

Theodore  Roosevelt. 
Mr.  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens, 
Windsor,  Vermont. 

The  White  House 

Washington 

Jan.  6,  1906. 
My  dear  Saint-Gaudens: 

I  have  seen  Shaw  about  that  coinage  and  told  him  that 
it  was  my  pet  baby.  We  will  try  it  anyway,  so  you  go 
ahead.  Shaw  was  really  very  nice  about  it.  Of  course  he 
thinks  I  am  a  mere  crack-brained  lunatic  on  the  subject, 
but  he  said  with  great  kindness  that  there  was  always  a  cer- 
tain number  of  gold  coins  that  had  to  be  stored  up  in 
vaults,  and  that  there  was  no  earthly  objection  to  having 
those  coins  as  artistic  as  the  Greeks  could  desire.  (I  am 
paraphrasing  his  words,  of  course.)  I  think  it  will  seriously 
increase  the  mortality  among  the  employes  of  the  mint  at 
seeing  such  a  desecration,  but  they  will  perish  in  a  good 
cause ! 

Always  yours, 

Theodore  Roosevelt. 
Mr.  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens, 

Windsor,  Vermont. 

The  White  House 

Washington 

October  1,  1906. 
Personal 
My  dear  Mr.  Saint-Gaudens: 

The  mint  people  have  come  down,  as  you  can  see  from 
the  enclosed  letter  which  is  in  answer  to  a  rather  dictatorial 


PERSONALITY  IN  CORRESPONDENCE  297 

one  I  sent  to  the  Secretary  of  the  Treasury.  When  can  we 
get  that  design  for  the  twenty-dollar  gold  piece?  I  hate 
to  have  to  put  on  the  lettering,  but  under  the  law  I  have 
no  alternative;  yet  in  spite  of  the  lettering  I  think,  my  dear 
sir,  that  you  have  given  us  a  coin  as  wonderful  as  any  of 
the  old  Greek  coins.  I  do  not  want  to  bother  you,  but  do 
let  me  have  it  as  quickly  as  possible.  I  would  like  to  halve 
the  coin  well  on  the  way  to  completion  by  the  time  Congress 
meets. 

It  was  such  a  pleasure  seeing  your  son  the  other  day. 

Please  return  Director  Koberts'  letter  to  me  when  you 
have  noted  it. 

Sincerely  yours, 

Theodore  Roosevelt. 
Mr.  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens, 

Windsor,  Vermont. 

The  White  House 
Washington 

December  11,  19C6. 
My  dear  Mr.  Samt-Gaudens: 

I  hate  to  trouble  you,  but  it  is  very  important  that  I  should 
have  the  models  for  those  coins  at  once.  How  soon  may  I 
have  them? 

With  all  good  wishes,  believe  me. 

Sincerely  yours, 

Theodore  Roosevelt. 
Mr.  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens, 
Windsor,  Vermont. 

Windsor,  Vermont,  December  19,  1906. 
Bear  Mr.  President: 

I  am  afraid  from  the  letter  sent  you  on  the  fourteenth 
with  the  models  for  the  Twenty-Dollar  Gold  piece  that  you 
will  think  the  coin  I  sent  you  was  unfinished.  This  is  not 
the  case.  It  is  the  final  and  completed  model,  but  I  hold 
myself  in  readiness  to  make  any  such  modifications  as  may 
be  required  in  the  reproduction  of  the  coin. 


298  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

This  will  explain  the  words,  "test  model"  on  the  back  of 
each  model. 

Faithfully  yours, 
Augustus  Saint-Gaudens, 


The  White  House 
Washington 


December  20,  1906. 


My  dear  Saint-Gaudens: 

Those  models  are  simply  immense — if  such  a  slang  way 
of  talking  is  permissible  in  reference  to  giving  a  modern 
nation  one  coinage  at  least  which  shall  be  as  good  as  that 
of  the  ancient  Greeks.  I  have  instructed  the  Director  of 
the  Mint  that  these  dies  are  to  be  reproduced  just  as  quickly 
as  possible  and  just  as  they  are.  It  is  simply  splendid.  I 
suppose  I  shall  be  impeached  for  it  in  Congress;  but  I  shall 
regard  that  as  a  very  cheap  payment ! 

With  heartiest  regards, 


Faithfully  yours, 

Theodore  Roosevelt. 


Mr.  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens, 
Windsor,  Vermont. 


SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  Why  should  a  great  statue  have  in  it  something  of  the  allegor- 

ical? 

2.  Describe  Mr.  Saint-Gaudens'  statue  of  General   Sherman. 

3.  What  does  the  first  letter  show  concerning  Mr.  Roosevelt's  opin- 

ion of  the  art  of  sculpture? 

4.  In  what  ways  are  the  old  Greek  coins  beautiful? 

5.  Point  out  essay-like  freedom  in  the  use  of  English. 

6.  Point  out  passages  that  are  notably  personal. 

7.  What  were  Mr.   Roosevelt's   plans  for  the  making  of  United 

States  coins? 

8.  What  were  Mr.  Saint-Gaudens'  plans? 

9.  Draw  from  the  letters  material  for  an  essay  on  coinage. 

10.  Show  in  what  respects  the  letters  have  something  of  the  spirit 
of  the  essay. 


PERSONALITY  IN  CORRESPONDENCE  299 


SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 

1.  A  letter  suggesting  an  inter-school  debate. 

2.  A  letter  inviting  a  graduate  of  the  school  to  act  as  judge  at  a 

debate. 

3.  A  letter  inviting  a  prominent  citizen  to  address  a  society  of 

which  you  are  a  member. 

4.  A  letter  telling  of  your  experiences  in  a  place  that  you  are  visit- 

ing for  the  first  time. 

5.  A  letter  giving  your  opinion   of  a  book  that  you  have  read 

recently. 

6.  A  letter  telling  your  plans  for  the  coming  vacation. 

7.  A  letter  concerning  the  use  of  an  athletic  field. 

8.  A  letter  inviting  the  graduates  of  your  school  to  come  to  a  school 

festival  or  entertainment. 

9.  A  letter  concerning  music  in  your  school. 

10.  A  letter  giving  an  excuse  for  absence. 

11.  A  letter  concerning  work  in  photography. 

12.  A  letter  concerning  the  work  of  prominent  athletes. 

13.  A  letter  concerning  arrangements  for  class  day  exercises. 
14  A  letter  concerning  graduation  week. 

15.  A  letter  to  a  teacher  who  has  left  the  school. 

16.  A  letter  to  a  person  much  older  than  you. 

17.  A  letter  to  a  school  in  a  foreign  country. 

18.  A  letter  to  a  school  in  another  State. 

19.  A  letter  written,  in  the  name  of  your  class,  for  publication  in 

the  school  annual. 

20.  A  letter  of  congratulation. 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

Write  your  letter  so  that  it  will  express  a  definite  and  practical 
proposal.  Express  your  own  individual  opinion  modestly  and  tact- 
fully. Use  language  that  will  thoroughly  represent  yourself.  Try, 
in  all  ways  possible,  to  avoid  making  your  letter  heavy,  "cut-and- 
dried,"  conventional,  and  purely  formal. 


THE  SYMBOLIC  STORY 

HI-BRASIL 

By  RALPH  DURAND 

An  English  traveller,  soldier  and  author,  who  is  still  young 
and  who  has  "followed  the  Sea  Maid"  over  every  ocean.  Like 
the  English  poet,  John  Masefield,  he  served  for  a  time  as  a  sailor 
before  the  mast.  He  has  seen  life  intimately  in  various  out-of- 
the-way  places,  such  as  the  South  Sea  Islands,  Central  Africa, 
and  the  Arctic  Eegions.  In  the  World  War  he  performed 
patriotic  duty  in  the  trenches  and  on  Intelligence  Staffs. 

Ei-Brasil  is  a  charming  and  fascinating  story,  a  symbolic  narrative 
that  most  artistically  combines  realism  and  fancy,  and  appeals  to  the 
unfulfilled  longings  that  every  reader  possesses. 

What  is  Hi-Brasil?  It  is  the  ' '  Never-Never-Land, "  the  land  of 
dreams,  the  land  of  longings.  In  this  story  it  is  specifically  the  land 
where  the  lost  ships  go.  Who  is  the  Sea  Maid?  She  is  the  Spirit  of 
Adventure,  the  love  of  whom  cails  men  ever  restlessly  on.  In  this  story 
she  is  the  Spirit  of  the  Sea.  How  skilfully  Mr.  Durand  describes  her 
in  sea-words:  "With  sea-blue  eyes"  and  "Wind-blown"  hair;  her 
laugh  ' '  Like  the  ripple  of  a  stream  that  runs  over  a  pebbly  beach ' ' ; 
her  song  ' '  Like  the  surge  of  breakers  on  a  distant  reef ' ' ;  herself  ' '  As 
old  as  the  sea,  and  a  little  older  than  the  hills. ' ' 

No  one  but  a  lover  of  the  sea,  and  a  lover  also  of  bold  enterprise  and 
high  deeds,  could  have  written  such  a  story,  emphasizing  as  it  does 
somewhat  of  the  theme  of  Longfellow's  Excelsior  and  Poe's  Eldorado — 

' '  Over  the  mountains 
Of  the  moon, 
Down  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 

Ride!     Boldly  ride!   .  .  . 
If  you  seek  for  Eldorado!  " 

"I've  never  sailed  the  Amazon, 
I  've  never  reached  Brazil ; 
But  the  Don  and  Magdalena, 
They  can  go  there  when  they  will!  " 

Peter  Luscombe  was  the  dullest  man  that  ever  audited  an 
account.  Once  when  his  neighbor  at  a  dinner-party,  having 
heard  that  he  was  an  authority  on  marine  insurance,  quoted 

300 


HI-BRASIL  301 

Longfellow  about  "the  beauty  and  the  mystery  of  the  ships 
and  the  magic  of  the  sea,"  Peter  looked  embarrassed  and 
turned  the  conversation  to  the  subject  of  charter-parties. 

His  life  was  as  carefully  regulated  as  Big  Ben.  He  caught 
the  same  train  every  morning,  dined  at  the  same  hour  every 
evening,  indexed  his  private  correspondence,  and  for  recrea- 
tion read  Price's  "Calculations."  On  Saturday  afternoons 
he  played  golf. 

One  Summer  a  business  matter  took  Peter  to  St.  Mawes,  and 
on  his  way  there  he  met  the  Sea  Maid.  To  get  to  St.  Mawes 
he  had  to  cross  Falmouth  Harbor  by  the  public  ferry. 

Though  till  then  he  had  had  no  more  direct  personal  ex- 
perience of  the  sea  than  can  be  obtained  from  the  Promenade 
at  Hove,  Peter  was  so  little  interested  in  his  surroundings 
that  he  spent  the  first  part  of  the  ferry  journey  making  notes 
of  his  personal  expenditure  since  leaving  London,  including 
tips,  on  the  last  page  of  his  pocket-diary.  Midway  across  the 
harbor  he  chanced  to  look  up  and  saw  a  yawl-rigged  fishing- 
boat — subconsciously  he  noticed  the  name  Maeldune  painted 
on  her  bows — running  before  the  wind  in  the  direction  of 
Falmouth  Quay.  An  old,  white-haired  man,  whose  cheeks 
were  the  color  of  an  Autumn  leaf,  was  sitting  amidships  tend- 
ing the  sheets,  and  at  the  tiller  sat  a  girl — a  girl  with  sea-blue 
eyes  and  untidy,  wind-blown,  dark-brown  hair. 

She  was  bending  forward,  peering  under  the  arched  foot 
of  the  mainsail,  when  Peter  first  caught  sight  of  her.  Their 
eyes  met;  the  girl  smiled — and  Peter  dropped  his  pocket- 
diary  into  the  dirty  water  that  washed  about  the  ferryman's 
boots  and  stared  after  the  Maeldune  till  he  could  no  longer 
distinguish  her  among  the  other  small  craft  in  the  harbor. 

When  the  ferry-boat  reached  St.  Mawes  and  discharged  her 
other  passengers  Peter  remained  in  her,  and  on  the  return 
journey  sat  in  the  bows  straining  his  eyes  to  pick  out  the 
Maeldune  among  the  other  fishing-boats.  Falmouth  Harbor 
is  two  and  a  half  miles  wide,  and  the  ferryman  refused  to  be 
hurried ;  but  at  last  the  quay  came  in  sight,  and  Peter 's  heart 
leaped,  for  the  Maeldune  was  lying  at  the  steps,  and  the  girl 
was  still  on  board  of  her.    As  soon  as  the  ferry-boat  reached 


302  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

the  steps  Peter  jumped  ashore  and  faced  the  girl.  Then  he 
hesitated,  embarrassed.  He  had  nothing  to  say  to  her,  or, 
rather,  no  excuse  for  speaking  to  her.  ' '  I — I — I  saw  you — as 
you  came  up  the  harbor,"  he  faltered. 

But  the  girl  showed  no  sign  of  embarrassment.  She  smiled 
at  him  again,  and  her  smile  was  brighter  than  sunlight  shin- 
ing through  the  curl  of  a  breaking  wave. 

"I'm  just  going  out  for  a  sail  again,"  she  said,  "and  I've 
room  for  a  passenger.  Old  John  has  just  gone  to  have  a  yarn 
with  the  sailmaker.    Would  you  care  to  come  ? ' ' 

Peter  jumped  onto  the  Maeldune's  thwart,  and  the  girl  cast 
off  and  hoisted  the  sail.  "  I  'm  afraid  I  don 't  know  anything 
about  sailing,"  said  Peter. 

The  girl  laughed,  and  her  laugh  sounded  like  the  ripple  of 
a  stream  that  runs  over  a  pebbly  beach. 

"That  doesn't  matter,"  she  said;  "I  can  manage  the  old 
Maeldune  single-handed." 

They  beat  down  the  harbor,  rounded  the  Loze,  and  stood 
out  in  the  direction  of  mid-channel.  Peter  was  entirely  happy. 
The  wind  was  blowing  fresh  from  the  southwest,  and  the 
Maeldune  danced  lightly  over  the  waves  like  a  thing  alive, 
her  thwarts  aslant  and  her  lee-rail  just  clear  of  the  water. 

' '  This  is  glorious, ' '  said  Peter.  ' '  Do  you  know,  this  is  the 
first  time  I  have  ever  been  on  the  sea.*' 

"It  won't  be  the  last,"  said  the  girl. 

For  a  long  while  neither  spoke  again.  Peter  did  not  want 
to  talk.  He  was  content  to  watch  the  Sea  Maid  as  she  sat  at 
the  tiller,  looking  toward  the  horizon  with  dreamy  eyes  and 
crooning  to  herself  a  wordless  song  that  sounded  like  the 
surge  of  breakers  on  a  distant  reef. 

"What  song  is  that?"  he  asked  after  a  long  silence. 

"That  is  the  song  that  Orpheus  sang  to  the  Argo  when  she 
lay  on  the  stocks  and  all  the  strength  of  the  heroes  could  not 
launch  her.  Then  Orpheus  struck  his  lyre  and  sang  of  the 
open  sea  and  all  the  wonders  that  are  beyond  the  farthest 
horizon,  till  the  Argo  so  yearned  to  be  afloat  with  a  fair  wind 
behind  her  that  she  spread  her  sails  of  her  own  accord  and 
glided  down  the  beach  into  the  water." 


HI-BRAS1L  303 

"I  hadn't  heard  about  it,"  said  Peter.  The  story  was  so 
fantastically  impossible  that  he  supposed  that  the  girl  was 
chaffing  him. 

"You  are  young,  surely,  to  handle  a  boat  by  yourself,"  he 
said.    "Don't  think  me  rude.    How  old  are  you?" 

"As  old  as  the  sea,  and  a  little  older  than  the  hills." 

Now  Peter  was  sure  that  the  girl  was  chaffing  him. 

Neither  spoke  again.  Occasionally  the  girl  looked  at  him 
and  smiled,  and  her  smile  was  the  most  beautiful  thing  that 
Peter  had  ever  known.  Toward  evening  they  turned  and 
sailed  back,  right  in  the  golden  path  of  the  sinking  sun. 
Slowly  the  old  town  of  Falmouth  took  shape ;  the  houses  be- 
came distinct,  then  the  people  on  the  quay.  Peter  sighed 
because  he  was  coming  back  to  the  shore  again,  and  because 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  tasted  absolute  happiness. 

Close  to  the  quay  the  girl  threw  the  boat  up  in  the  wind, 
ran  forward  and  lowered  the  head-sails,  and  then  ran  back  to 
the  tiller.  The  Maeldune  came  gently  up  to  the  landing-stage. 
Peter  jumped  ashore  and  turned,  expecting  that  the  girl 
would  follow,  but  she  pushed  off  and  began  to  hoist  the  head- 
sails  again. 

"May  I — may  I  see  you  again?"  said  Peter,  as  the  gap 
widened  between  the  boat  and  the  shore. 

The  Sea  Maid  laughed. 

"If  you  come  to  Hi-Brasil,"  she  said. 

Peter  walked  slowly  in  the  direction  of  Fore  Street,  then 
realized  that  he  needed  some  more  definite  address  if  he  were 
to  see  the  girl  again.  He  hurried  back  to  the  landing-stage 
and  looked  eagerly  for  the  Maeldune.  She  was  nowhere  in 
sight. 

"Did  you  see  a  little  sailing-boat  leave  the  steps  about  five 
minutes  ago?"  he  asked  a  man  who  was  lounging  on  the 
quay.    "Which  way  did  she  go?" 

"What  rig?" 

* '  I  don 't  know  what  you  call  it — one  big  mast  and  one  little 
one." 

"A  yawl.    There's  been  no  yawls  in  here  this  afternoon." 

Peter  inwardly   cursed  the  man's  stupidity  and  walked 


304  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

dejectedly  away.  He  dreamed  of  the  Sea  Maid  that  night, 
and  in  the  morning  told  himself  that  he  was  a  fool.  He  had 
had  an  hour  or  so  of  happiness  with  a  jolly  girl  who  evidently 
did  not  wish  to  continue  the  acquaintance.  Obviously,  the 
sensible  thing  to  do  was  to  forget  all  about  her.  But  he  could 
not  forget.  Work  became  impossible.  When  he  tried  to 
write  the  laughing  face  of  the  Sea  Maid  danced  before  his 
eyes,  and  when  clients  talked  to  him  he  could  not  listen,  for 
the  song  she  had  sung  rang  in  his  ears.  He  went  back  to 
Falmouth  determined  to  see  her  again,  and  not  till  he  reached 
the  Cornish  port  did  he  realize  the  futility  of  his  search. 
How  was  he  to  make  inquiries  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  two 
people  of  whom  he  knew  nothing  more  definite  than  that  the 
man  was  white-haired  and  bronzed,  and  that  the  girl,  when 
last  seen,  had  worn  a  white  jersey  and  a  blue-serge  skirt? 

A  month  later  he  was  an  unwilling  guest  at  a  reception 
given  by  a  famous  London  hostess.  The  rooms  were  packed 
with  a  well-dressed  crowd  who  walked  about  rather  aimlessly, 
talking  on  the  stairs  or  listening  to  music  in  one  or  other  of 
the  reception-rooms.  Suddenly  Peter's  heart  stood  still  for 
a  moment.  Clear  above  the  chatter  he  heard  the  Sea  Girl's 
voice.  He  was  standing  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  she  was 
singing  in  one  of  the  adjoining  rooms, 

I  've  never  sailed  the  Amazon, 

I  've  never  reached  Brazil ; 

But  the  Don  and  Magdalena, 

They  can  go  there  when  they  will! 

Yes,  weekly  from  Southampton, 
Great  steamers,  white  and  gold, 
Go  rolling  down  to  Rio 
(Roll  down — roll  down  to  Rio!), 
And  I  'd  like  to  roll  to  Rio 
Some  day  before  I'm  old! 

The  doorway  into  the  room  from  which  he  could  hear  the 
Sea  Maid 's  voice  was  so  crowded  with  people  that  it  was  some 
minutes  before  Peter  could  edge  his  way  into  the  room.  By 
that  time  the  song  was  over  and  the  singer  had  gone.  Peter 
made  inquiries  from  a  man  standing  near,  and  was  told  that 


HI-BRASIL  305 

she  had  left  the  room  by  another  door.  He  sought  out  his 
hostess  and  asked  her  to  introduce  him  to  the  lady  who  had 
sung  ' '  Rolling  down  to  Rio. ' '  But  his  hostess  could  not  help 
him.  She  admitted  reluctantly  that  she  knew  no  more  of  the 
singer  than  that  she  was  a  professional  entertainer  engaged 
through  the  medium  of  a  concert  agent  and  that  she  had 
probably  already  left  the  house.  Peter  followed  up  the  clue. 
Next  morning,  after  inquiry  from  the  agent,  he  rang  the  bell 
of  a  tiny  flat  in  Maida  Vale  and  stood  with  beating  heart  wait- 
ing for  the  door  to  open. 

Five  minutes  later  he  was  out  in  the  street  again,  bitterly 
disappointed.  The  lady  he  had  seen  was  able  to  prove  indis- 
putably that  it  was  she  who  had  sung  "Rolling  down  to  Rio," 
but  she  bore  not  the  slightest  resemblance  to  the  Sea  Maiden. 
To  cover  his  confusion  and  excuse  his  visit,  Peter  had  engaged 
her  to  sing  at  a  charity  concert  that  he  had  invented  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment,  had  insisted  on  paying  her  fee  in  ad- 
vance, and  had  left  the  flat,  promising  to  send  details  of  the 
place  and  date  of  the  engagement  by  post. 

That  evening,  brooding  in  his  lonely  chambers,  Peter,  who 
till  then  had  prided  himself  on  believing  nothing  that  is  not 
based  on  the  fundamental  fact  that  two  and  two  make  four, 
became  obsessed  by  the  idea  that  the  Sea  Maid  had  sent  him 
a  spirit-message,  using  the  unconscious  professional  enter- 
tainer as  her  medium.  He  tried  to  shake  off  the  idea,  telling 
himself  that  it  was  fantastic  and  ridiculous,  but  gradually  it 
overmastered  him.  At  eleven  o'clock  he  rose  from  his  chair, 
picked  up  the  Times,  and  consulted  the  shipping  advertise- 
ments.   Five  minutes  later  he  rang  for  his  man  servant. 

"Buck  up  and  pack,  Higgins,"  he  said.  "I'm  off  to  Brazil. 
You  haven't  too  much  time.  Boat-train  leaves  Waterloo  at 
midday  to-morrow." 

"To  Brazil,  sir?    Isn't  that  one  of  those  foreign  places?" 

"Yes.  Why?  What  are  you  staring  at?  Why  shouldn't 
I  go  to  Brazil?" 

"Shall  you  want  me,  sir?" 

"You  can  come  if  you  like." 


306  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

"If  it 's  all  the  same  to  you,  sir,  I 'd  rather — 


m 


"Man  alive!  I  thought  you'd  have  jumped  at  the  chance. 
Don't  you  want  to  go  rolling  down  to  Kio?  Can't  you  feel 
the  magic  of  it — even  in  the  mere  words  ?  Wouldn  't  you  like 
to  see  the  armadillo  dilloing  in  his  armor ?" 

"I'd  better  get  on  with  the  packing,  sir." 

Higgins  was  convinced  that  his  master  had  suddenly  "gone 
balmy. ' ' 

Before  sunset  next  evening  Peter  again  saw  the  Sea  Maid. 

The  R.  M.  S.  Maranhao,  outward  bound  for  Rio  de  Janeiro, 
had  just  left  St.  Alban's  Head  abeam  when  she  passed  a  full- 
rigged  ship  bound  down-channel  so  closely  that  Peter  could 
see  the  men  on  board  of  her.  Her  tug  had  just  left  her  and 
she  was  setting  all  sails.  One  by  one  the  sails  fluttered  free 
and  swelled  to  the  soft  breeze.  Men  were  lying  out  on  the 
upper  topsail-yards  casting  loose  the  gaskets,  and  others  on 
deck  were  running  up  the  royals  to  the  tune  of  a  chantey, 

Sing  a  song  of  Ranzo,  boys, 
Ranzo,  boys,  Ranzo. 

A  crisp  wave  curled  from  ber  bows,  a  long  wake  of  gleaming 
foam  streamed  astern  of  her,  and  she  curtsied  gracefully  on 
the  swell  as  if  gravely  saluting  the  larger,  newer  vessel.  The 
Maranhao  passed  under  her  stern,  and  as  she  passed  Peter, 
looking  down  on  her  poop,  saw  the  Sea  Maid.  And  the  Sea 
Maid  saw  him  and  waved  her  hand  as  the  great  mail-steamer 
surged  past. 

' '  D  'you  know  that  vessel  ? ' '  asked  Peter  eagerly  of  a  ship 's 
officer  who  was  standing  near  him. 

"She's  the  Sea  Sprite.  Cleared  from  Southampton  early 
this  morning.    Bound  for  Rio  in  ballast  for  hides." 

"Bound  for  Rio?  Splendid!"  said  Peter.  "How  long 
will  it  take  her  to  get  there?    I  know  some  one  on  board." 

"A  month — more  or  less.    Who's  your  pal?" 

"That  girl  that  waved  her  hand  to  me." 

The  ship's  officer  focused  his  binoculars  on  the  Sea  Sprite. 

1 '  There 's  no  girl  on  her  deck.  Girls  very  seldom  travel  on 
wind-jammers  nowadays.     Look  for  yourself." 


HI-BRASIL  307 

Peter  took  the  glasses,  and  again  saw  the  Sea  Maid  quite 
distinctly — but  he  did  not  care  to  argue  about  it. 

While  waiting  at  Rio  de  Janeiro  Peter  took  care  to  make 
friends  with  the  port  authorities,  and  arranged  with  them  to 
let  him  have  the  first  news  that  they  had  of  the  Sea  Sprite. 

At  last  one  morning  found  him  in  the  customs  launch, 
steaming  out  to  the  roadstead  where  the  Sea  Sprite,  her 
anchor  down,  was  stowing  her  canvas.  As  soon  as  the  quar- 
antine doctor  gave  permission  Peter  scrambled  up  the  ship's 
side  and  looked  eagerly  round  her  deck.  The  Sea  Maid  was 
not  there.  He  could  hardly  contain  himself  until  he  could 
find  an  opportunity  to  ask  for  her. 

"I  passed  you  in  the  Channel,  Captain,"  he  said,  "and  I 
saw  a  lady  on  your  deck  who  is  an  old  friend  of  mine.  May  I 
speak  to  her  ? "    The  captain  shook  his  head. 

"Must  have  been  some  other  ship,"  he  said.  "We've  got 
no  ladies  aboard." 

Peter's  heart  sank. 

"I  suppose  you  dropped  her  at  some  port  on  the  way." 

"We  haven't  smelled  harbor  mud  since  we  left  South- 
ampton Water,"  said  the  skipper.  "You're  making  a  mis- 
take, mister.  Why,  you  look  as  if  you  thought  I  was  lying. 
Take  a  look  at  the  ship's  articles,  then,  if  you  don't  believe 
me.  Stands  to  reason,  doesn't  it,  that  if  I  had  a  woman 
aboard  her  name  would  be  on  the  articles?" 

Peter  returned  to  the  shore,  bitterly  disappointed  and 
hardly  convinced  that  he  had  been  mistaken.  He  booked  a 
passage  on  the  next  homeward-bound  steamer.  On  the  home- 
ward voyage  he  fell  in  love  with  an  old  lady,  one  of  those 
women  whose  personality  is  so  magnetic  that  they  can  draw 
the  innermost  secrets  out  of  a  young  man's  heart.  One 
evening,  when  the  sea  was  ablaze  with  splendor  under  the 
moon,  he  told  her  of  the  Sea  Maid,  and  found  it  eased  his 
longing  to  talk  of  her.    The  old  lady  understood. 

"You'll  see  your  Sea  Maid  again,"  she  said.  "I'm  sure  of 
it.    But  perhaps  not  in  this  life." 

But  Peter  refused  to  give  up  hope  of  seeing  the  Sea  Maid 
in  the  flesh.    When  he  got  back  to  London  he  sought  an  inter- 


308  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

view  with  one  of  the  most  eminent  members  of  thb  "Royal 
Geographical  Society. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  where  Hi-Brasil  is,"  he  said.  "'I 
want  to  go  there." 

"Then  you'll  have  to  wait  till  you  die,"  said  the  geogiapW 
with  a  laugh. 

"What .do  you  mean?" 

"Hi-Brasil  is  a  purely  mythical  island,  like  St.  Brendan's, 
The  Fortunate  Islands,  Avalon,  and  Lyonnesse,  that  ancient 
and  medieval  geographers  supposed  to  be  somewhere  out  in 
the  Atlantic.  They've  served  their  purpose.  If  nobody  had 
ever  believed  in  them  it  is  probable  that  America  would  net 
have  been  discovered  yet.  The  myth  of  Hi-Brasil 's  existence 
took  a  long  time  to  die.  Venetian  geographers  of  the  Middle 
Ages  supposed  it  to  be  somewhere  near  the  Azores,  and  until 
1830  Purdy's  chart  of  the  Atlantic  marked  'Brasil  Rock 
(High) '  in  latitude  fifty-one  degrees  ten  minutes  north,  and 
longitude  fifteen  degrees  fifty  minutes  west — that  is,  about 
two  hundred  miles  westward  of  the  Irish  coast." 

"But  isn't  it  possible  that  there  really  is  such  an  island?" 
persisted  Peter.    "The  sea  is  a  big  place,  you  know." 

"Absolutely  impossible,"  said  the  geographer.  "Why,  the 
3pot  indicated  by  Purdy  is  right  in  the  track  of  steamers 
going  from  England  to  Newfoundland.  If  you  want  to  read 
about  Hi-Brasil  you  must  read  old  books,  published  before 
geography  was  an  exact  science." 

Though  he  knew  it  was  useless  Peter  followed  the  advice 
given  him  and  eagerly  read  every  book  he  could  find  that 
had  any  bearing  on  the  subject — Rubruquis,  Hakluyt,  Lin- 
schoten,  and  many  others — and  to  his  delight  he  found  that 
his  reading  brought  him  nearer  to  his  Sea  Maiden.  After  an 
evening  spent  in  imagination  exploring  the  coast  of  Vinland 
with  Leif  Ericsson,  or  rounding  North  Cape  with  Othere,  or 
groping  blindly  in  the  unknown  Atlantic  with  Malacello,  he 
almost  invariably  dreamed  that  he  and  the  Sea  Maiden  were 
once  more  sailing  together  in  the  little  Maeldune. 

It  was  after  reading,  first  in  Longfellow  and  afterward  \r 


HI-BRASIL  309 

Hakluyt,  about  Othere's  voyage  to  the  Northern  Seas,  that 
Peter  saw  an  advertisement  of  a  holiday  cruise  through  the 
Norwegian  fiords  to  Spitzbergen.  He  booked  a  passage,  saw 
the  bleak,  storm-harried  point  that  Othere  was  the  first  to 
round,  and,  on  his  way  home,  saw  the  Sea  Girl  again.  Just 
south  of  the  Dogger  Bank  the  tourist-steamer  passed  a  disrep- 
utable-looking tramp  steamer.  Half  of  her  plates  were 
painted  a  crude  red ;  others  were  brown  with  rust ;  the  awning 
stanchions  on  her  bridge  were  twisted  and  bent ;  she  had  a 
heavy  list  to  starboard,  and  she  was  staggering  southward 
under  a  heavy  deck-cargo  of  timber.  On  the  bridge,  leaning 
against  the  tattered  starboard-dodger,  the  Sea  Maid  stood 
and  waved  her  hand  to  him.  Peter  eagerly  sought  out  a  ship 's 
officer. 

"Where's  that  steamer  bound  for?"  he  asked. 

"Goodness  knows!"  was  the  answer.  "South  Wales,  most 
likely,  as  she's  carrying  pit-props." 

Hope  of  seeing  the  Sea  Girl  in  the  flesh  again  returned,  and 
Peter  wasted  the  next  few  weeks  vainly  searching  all  the 
South  Wales  coal  ports.  He  had  given  up  the  search,  and  was 
returning  to  his  much-neglected  business  when  the  South 
Wales-London  express  stopped  for  a  moment  on  the  bridge 
over  the  Wye  near  Newport.  Peter  looked  idly  out  of  the 
window  at  the  dirty  river  flowing  sluggishly  between  banks 
of  greasy  mud.  Then  his  heart  leaped  again.  Lying  em- 
bedded in  the  mud  far  below  were  the  rotting  remains  of  a 
derelict  barge,  and  on  her  deck  were  some  ragged  children 
hauling  lustily  on  a  scrap  of  rope  that  they  had  fastened  to 
one  of  the  barge's  bollards  and  singing  what,  no  doubt,  they 
supposed  to  be  a  chantey.  Standing  on  the  barge's  rotting 
deck  was  the  Sea  Maid.  This  time  she  not  only  waved  her 
hand  but  called  to  him,  "We  are  bound  for  the  Spanish 
Main."  Peter  leaned  far  out  of  the  window  of  the  railway- 
carriage. 

"Where  can  I  find  you'"  he  shouted. 

"In  Hi-Brasil,"  was  the  answer,  and  the  train  moved  on. 

Peter  was  now  convinced  that  the  eminent  geographer 
whom  he  had  consulted  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  Hi-Brasil 


310  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

had  not  known  what  he  was  talking  about.  It  must,  he  de- 
cided, be  some  little  Cornish  fishing  village,  too  insignificant 
to  be  worth  the  great  man's  notice. 

In  pursuit  of  this  idea  he  went  at  once  to  Falmouth  and 
began  to  make  inquiries,  first  at  the  police  stations  and  post- 
offices,  and  afterward  among  the  fishermen.  At  Falmouth 
no  one  could  answer  his  questions,  till  at  last  an  old  gray- 
beard  told  him  that  he'd  heard  of  the  place  and  believed  it 
was  somewhere  farther  west.  At  Penzance  and  Newlyn  Peter 
could  hear  nothing,  and  he  walked  westward  to  Mousehole, 
determined  that  if  he  heard  nothing  there  he  would  go  on  to 
the  Scilly  Islands.  At  Mousehole  people  laughed  at  him.  One 
man  to  whom  he  spoke  was  so  amused  that  he  called  out  to  a 
group  of  fishermen  standing  on  the  quay  waiting  for  the  tide 
to  float  their  boats. 

"Gen'elman  wants  to  know  where  Hi-Brasil  is." 

"Then  he'll  have  to  go  farther  west,"  said  one. 

"To  the  Scillies?"  asked  Peter. 

"Aye,  and  farther  than  that." 

"A  long  way  farther  than  that,"  said  another.  "It's  an 
old  wives'  tale,  mister.  Stout  ships  that  sail  westward  and 
never  come  back  to  port  again  have  their  last  moorings  at 
Hi-Brasil,  so  the  saying  goes.  You  ask  Old  John  there.  He's 
the  only  man  that  talks  about  Hi-Brasil,  and  he's  daft." 

An  old  man  whose  broad  back  was  bent  with  the  weight  of 
many  years  was  hobbling  toward  him,  and  Peter  knew  that 
at  last  he  was  on  the  right  track.  The  old  fisherman  who  was 
coming  down  the  quay  was  none  other  than  the  man  he  had 
seen  sailing  in  the  Maeldune  with  the  Sea  Girl. 

"Hi-Brasil?"  asked  Old  John.  "What  d'you  want  with 
Hi-Brasil?" 

"I  want  to  go  there." 

"Then  I'm  the  man  to  take  'ee.  But  mark  'ee,  mister,  I 
can't  bring  'ee  back." 

"Never  mind  about  that,"  said  Peter.    "You  take  me.    I'll 

pay  you  well." 

"Time  enough  to  talk  about  payment  when  we  get  there," 
said  the  old  man.    "When  do  'ee  want  to  start?' 


1 11 


HI-BEASIL  311 

"At  once,  if  possible." 

"If  'ee  really  want  to  go  us  can  start  at  half -flood." 

Peter  assured  the  old  man  that  he  was  in  earnest,  and  the 

latter  hobbled  away  over  the  cobbles,  promising  to  be  back 

in  an  hour's  time. 

"You're  never  going  to  sea  with  Old  John,  are  you, 
mister?"  said  one  of  the  fishermen  anxiously.  "He  was  a 
rare  bold  seaman  in  his  day,  but  his  day  has  passed  this  many 
a  year.  He  was  old  when  we  were  boys.  Old  John  says  he  '11 
last  as  long  as  a  deep-sea  wind-jammer  remains  afloat.  But 
he's  daft.  You  oughtn't  to  listen  to  him.  It's  all  old  wives' 
foolishness  about  Hi-Brasil." 

But  Peter  would  not  be  dissuaded,  and  an  hour  later,  when 
the  pilchard-boats  jostled  each  other  between  the  Mousehole 
pier-heads,  and  spread  across  Mount 's  Bay  for  sea-room,  Peter 
and  John,  in  a  crazy  old  mackerel-boat,  went  with  them.  The 
setting  sun  gleamed  on  the  brown  sails  of  the  pilchard  fleet, 
and  Peter  drew  a  deep  breath  of  delight.  He  knew  that  he 
would  soon  see  the  Sea  Maid  again. 

At  midnight  the  pilchard  fleet  was  a  line  of  riding  lights 
on  the  horizon  behind  them.  When  the  sun  rose  the  Scillies 
(ay  to  the  north  of  them.  Passing  under  the  lofty  Head  of 
Peninnis,  they  exchanged  hails  with  a  fisherman  of  St.  Mary's 
who  was  hauling  his  lobster-pots. 

"Going  far?"  asked  the  fisherman. 

"Aye,  far  enough,"  answered  John. 

"Looks  like  it's  coming  on  to  blow  from  the  east,"  said  the 
fisherman. 

"Like  enough,"  answered  John,  and  they  passed  out  of 
hearing. 

By  midday  a  fresh  wind  was  blowing.  The  mackerel-boat 's 
faded,  much-patched  sails  tugged  at  her  mast,  and  she  groaned 
as  she  leaped  from  the  tops  of  the  waves. 

"Afeard,  be  'ee?"  asked  Old  John. 

"Not  I,"  said  Peter. 

"The  harder  it  blows,  the  quicker  we'll  get  there,"  said 
John,  and  not  another  word  was  said. 


312  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STOEIES 

By  night-time  it  was  blowing  a  gale.  A  driving,  following 
sea  hustled  and  banged  the  boat  from  wave  to  wave,  and  the 
night  fell  so  dark  that  Peter  could  not  see  the  old  man  sitting 
motionless  at  the  tiller,  except  when  a  wave  broke  in  foam 
and  formed  a  great  white  background  behind  him.  Peter 
felt  no  fear.  He  knew  with  the  certainty  that  admits  of  no 
argument  that  he  was  on  his  way  a1  last  to  his  beloved. 

The  wind  hummed  in  the  boat's  rigging  with  a  droning 
note  like  that  of  the  Sea  Maid's  song.  The  waves  washed 
along  her  counter,  flinging  aboard  stinging  showers  of  spray 
that  drenched  Peter  as  he  sat  on  the  midship  thwart.  The 
jib  flapped  and  tugged  at  its  sheet  when  her  stern  rose  on  a 
wave  and  groaned  with  the  strain  as  her  bow  lifted.  Each 
time  she  strained  streams  of  water  gushed  through  her  crazy 
seams.  At  last  a  fierce  gust  of  wind  drove  her  nose  so  deep 
into  the  water  that  it  poured  in  a  cascade  over  her  bows,  and 
then  a  great,  curving  comber  broke  over  them.  Peter  was 
washed  from  his  seat  and  jammed  between  the  mast  and  the 
leech  of  the  mainsail  as  the  water  rose  over  his  head. 

When  Peter  recovered  consciousness  the  sun  was  shining, 
the  air  was  warm,  the  sea  still,  and  the  mackerel-boat,  with 
Old  John  still  at  the  tiller,  was  entering  the  mouth  of  a  great 
land-locked  harbor.  Cliffs,  gay  with  heather  and  golden 
gorse,  sheltered  it  from  the  wind.  The  lazy,  offshore  breeze 
was  fragrant  with  the  smell  of  thyme.  Shoals  of  fish  played 
in  the  clear  water,  and  on  the  far  side  a  stream  of  fresh  water 
rippled  over  golden  sand. 

Peter  rubbed  his  eyes  and  looked  around  him  with  amaze- 
ment. The  harbor  was  thronged  with  shipping  of  every  size, 
shape,  and  rig:  yachts  and  smacks,  schooners  and  ketches, 
tramp  steamers  and  ocean-liners,  barks  and  full-rigged  ships, 
galleys  and  galleons,  cogs  and  caracks,  dromons  and  balingers, 
aphracts  and  cataphracts. 

' '  See  that  vessel  ? ' '  said  Old  John,  as  they  passed  under  the 
stern  of  a  stoutly  built  brig.  "That's  Franklin's  ship,  the 
Terror — crushed  in  the  ice,  she  was,  off  Beechey  Island  in  the 
Arctic.    And  that  little  craft  alongside  of  her  is  the  Revenge. 


HI-BRASIL  313 

She  sank  in  the  Azores  after  fighting  fifty-three  Spaniards 
for  a  day  and  a  night.  Away  over  there  is  what  they  used  to 
call  a  trireme.  Cleared  from  the  Port  of  Tyre,  she  did,  when 
I  was  young,  and  foundered  off  Marazion,  just  where  we  left 
the  pilchard  fleet." 

But  Peter  was  not  listening.  He  was  eagerly  watching  a 
yawl  that  was  scudding  toward  them;  for  the  yawl  was  the 
Maeldune,  and  under  the  arched  foot  of  her  mainsail  the  Sea 
Maid  was  smiling  a  greeting. 

SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS 

1.  Why  did  the  author  make  his  hero  "the  dullest  man  that  ever 

audited  an  account"? 

2.  Point  out,  and  explain,  all  the  classical  and  literary  allusions. 

3.  Why  did  the  author  make  his  story  so  largely  realistic? 

4.  What  is  the  effect  of  the  songs? 

5.  How  does  the  author  make  his  story  clear? 

6.  Comment   on   the   author's  use   of  conversation. 

7.  In  what  respects  is  the  story  poetic? 

8.  What  effect  does  Old  John  contribute  to  the  story? 

9.  What  is  the  effect  of  the  abrupt  ending? 
10.  What  makes  the  story  unusually  artistic? 

SUBJECTS  FOR  WRITTEN  IMITATION 

1.  Utopia  11.  The    World    of    Puck    and 

2.  Castles  in  Spain  Oberon 

3.  The  Fountain  of  Youth  12.  The  Summit  of  Olympus 

4.  Arcadia  13.  Eldorado 

5.  The   Garden   of  the  Hespe-  14.  St.  Brendan's  Isle 

rides  15.  Lyonesse 

6.  Over  the  Mountains  16.  The  Fortunate  Islands 

7.  The  Happy  Valley  17.  The  Land  of  the  Lotus 

8.  The  Land  of  Dreams  18.  The  Lost  Atlantis 

9.  The  Isle  of  Avalon  19.  At  Camelot 

10.  The  Enchanted  World  20.  The  Land  of  Heart's  Delight 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  WRITING 

It  is  not  easy  to  write,  even  with  only  a  small  degree  of  success, 
so  happily  suggestive  a  story  as  Hi-Brasil.  Such  a  story  is  the 
product  both  of  experience  and  of  art. 


314  MODERN  ESSAYS  AND  STORIES 

The  best  that  you  can  do  is  to  think  of  some  longing  that  has 
possessed  you,  as  the  longing  for  the  sea  possessed  the  author  of 
Hi-Brasil.  Take  some  prosaic  character,  not  usually  moved  by 
such  longings  as  your  own,  and  show  him  brought  strongly  under 
the  influence  of  a  great  desire.  Make  your  story  so  realistic  that  it 
will  seem  true,  and  so  symbolic  that  it  will  be  at  once  poetic  and 
capable  of  conveying  a  strong  idea.  Do  all  in  your  power  to  make 
your  story  crystal-clear,  strongly  outlined,  and  effective  in  power. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


'NOV  2 
APR  2 6  193b 


DEC  8 


0  1 


1942 
-  194$ 


'<:  ..'  . 


: 


WAR  l  p  J952 
NOV"  4^52 
MPtf  6     1958 

JUN  ^  7196SJ 

Stj-u  8  1987 


MOV  J 


4  19/!' 


DEC*    *« 


JM*15 

Form  L-9-10m-2,'31 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA      000  296  996    2 


3  1158  012 


2  7055 


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